


A Club For Murder

by The_Lights_Dance_On



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Bad Parenting, Bisexual Character of Color, Bisexual Male Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Character Death, Child Abuse, Choking, Colourism, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Crushes, Domestic Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Evil, F/M, Face Slapping, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Male Character, Hanging, Heavy Angst, High School, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Add As I Go Because I'm Pretty Sure That's Nowhere Near All Of It, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Lesbian Character, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Obsession, Oral Sex, POV Bisexual Character, Past Child Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Past Rape/Non-con, Police, Questioning of Sexuality, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, School, Sex, Single Parents, Stabbing, Strangulation, Trans Female Character, Transphobia, Underage Rape/Non-con, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, single mother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2019-09-13 17:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 66,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16896654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lights_Dance_On/pseuds/The_Lights_Dance_On
Summary: When Wink Murder starts, you will sit in the circle.My circle is divided into four, uneven segments, separated by motion sensors. Every time someone crosses in between segments, you will hear a beep.When seated, there must be one, singular seat between you and those next to you.The lights in the room will turn off, for a singular minute, a minute at a time. This will be the allocated time for the murderer to choose and kill their victim.They will be helped with special effects by the adult supervisor. These will be realistic and may be jarring for squeamish members of the audience.If you suspect the murderer, you must find them in the dark and kill them yourself. The game does not end until the murderer dies.THIS SECTION OF THE MESSAGE IS SPECIAL ONLY TO YOU. YOURS IS THE ONE INVITATION ON WHICH I HAVE WRITTEN THE WORDS: YOU ARE THE MURDERER.Keep your identity secret. Tell absolutely no-one. And do your job well.Who knew that it was never just a game?





	1. The Credibility of a Hunch

**Author's Note:**

> This work will be updated every Friday! I've already got it written, so there's no excuse for me to be late with them :D I'm still working on my writing so I'd really appreciate any feedback.
> 
> TW for chapter: murder, alcohol, possibly graphic imagery? I'm not really sure what constitutes as graphic depictions of violence but I think it could be triggering for some, so if you're particularly sensitive to blood/gore I perhaps wouldn't read.

It did not look, to the unobservant schoolchild, like the scene of a murder.

Whether or not the children should have been more observant is arguable both ways. The premise of the party was suspect, and, of course, it was being held in the home of the infamous Scarlet Turner, but, after all, to imagine murders without evidence is best described as paranoia, no matter how notorious your host. The knowledge needed to really be righteous in your suspicions was held by very few.

Fortunately – or unfortunately– for the rest of the party, they were all here. 

The first was sitting at the side, a timid girl that you could see wanted desperately to blend into her surroundings but was sadly too clumsy to do so. She was holding hands with another girl who couldn’t blend in if she tried; she wore glamorous crimson lipstick and a tight black dress, with cascades of golden ringlets perched on her head – but ultimately, it was her demeanour and not her appearance that made her stand out. A shadow of a bruise darkened her face, and her eyes darted across the shadows scuttling across the walls like she was waiting for one to jump out at her. So far she had refused to dance with every suitor, even the ones that had not leered and persisted unpleasantly. 

‘– oh come _on_ …’ 

‘Get _lost_ ,’ Andrea bit at him. Her tone had him recoiling like a gun; an odd bitterness, heaviness there. With her cheeky painted smile and glamorous dress and forced composure, the party had forgotten Andrea’s fury; but for that moment, the collarbones and cheekbones on display seemed gaunt instead of beautiful and her eyes lost their empty sparkle. The bruise suddenly jumped out, the jarring purple solid like it had been stamped over her eye. 

The boy left. 

The two girls did not resemble one another, and if they had been related it would have been something of a surprise, but they were clutching hands, seeing an inescapable terror that the rest of the dancing mass was blissfully oblivious to. Andrea’s posture was meant to be calm, but it was far too rigid to be so. Her tense legs were trembling. Dark eyes darted around the room. 

‘Sophie?’ she began. 

The other, timid girl turned her head.

Andrea said nothing, her teeth pulling at her lips. The choker around her neck was a thin, black ribbon. It looked like a leash. Sophie looked as if she was going to reply, but was soon distracted by the figure of a tall, muscular boy pushing his way through the crowd. He was greeted with a kiss, but she remained just as tense as her friend. 

The boy was dressed in a loud sport jersey and glaringly clean trainers, good-looking and apparently comfortable in the atmosphere of the party. Next to him and his relaxed persona, Sophie and Andrea looked, to the casual onlooker, all the more odd – but if you watched more closely, there was a darkness festering somewhere in his eyes that made certain people wonder how much he knew.

‘I got you a drink,’ he said. Sophie smiled in tight gratitude. Her eyes spoke love and fear.

With the boy was a clear relative, perhaps a twin. She shared with him the gorgeous, ebony skin, but the rest of his handsome features were sharpened on her face so she looked hawk-like instead of striking. They were the same height. Despite his alleged relaxation, she looked as if she was ready to go into a job interview; she appeared to be the human emulation of disapproval. Her severe pencil skirt was clamped over her knees and she sat straight and upright, her hand sealed over her brother’s arm like a guard. There was a clear warning that however rowdy he wanted to be, she would be drawing the lines and not him.

‘Hey, Cameron,’ said Andrea. She ignored his sister, her face flickering into a rare, genuine smile. ‘No drink for me?’ 

‘Mali got one for you,’ said Cameron, gesturing to his sister. ‘I didn’t want to carry yours as well as Sophie’s and mine through that mess.’

‘I hope there’s no alcohol in there,’ said Mali, her voice clipped. It was the first time she had spoken.

‘ _Surely_ after how much you monitored me while I was pouring it-‘Cameron began. Sensing the inevitable bickering before it came, Sophie hastily drew the group’s attention to their fifth counterpart in complicity. He was remarkably hard to miss, dressed in an amber-gold silk that made the hazel-gold of his eyes shine even brighter, and dancing on the table. It was purposefully enticing, and the crowd around him was growing in both numbers and rowdiness, but the boy emulated such an air of confidence and ethereality that they seemed almost afraid to press closer – though happy to bellow suggestive comments from the floor. 

It was easy to wonder what that kind of charisma could do if put to the wrong use. The boy had the entire party wrapped around his proverbial pinky finger. 

‘Angel’s a good dancer,’ Andrea admired. Mali did not respond. Her mouth was screwed into a tight knot of judgement at his actions, though there was some quiet admiration herself there. Regardless of how his confidence manifested itself, he was undoubtedly and defiantly confident, and he seemed unbreakable. Whatever lies, deceit or demons lay beneath his perfectly polished surface of elegant clothes and glamorous makeup, were varnished with lip gloss and hidden in plain sight. His façade was immovable.

He knew things. But who would know he knew?

The only break anyone could see was the way those stunning eyes continued to drift to one particular member of his audience; a rather mundane-looking blonde boy drinking orange juice out of a plastic cup instead of a shot glass. He was being bumped and hustled by those around him, his fluffy jumper fiercely conspicuous amidst the glamour of the party. There was a breaking anxiety mounting in his eyes and threatening to spill, wide and terrified like a frightened animal. 

The golden boy’s eyes caught his and with a nimble leap he had jumped off the table. Though the crowd hollered their disappointment with an alcohol-induced aggression, he seemed unbothered, navigating the screeching, gyrating mob with ease. 

‘What’s wrong?’ the boy named Angel demanded. The blonde boy said nothing. Frustrated, Angel tugged him off to a corner. As they left, a red-haired girl’s eyes followed rather wistfully.

‘Where do you think Angel’s going?’ she asked the girl next to her.

The girl - the grand host of the party – shrugged. She was an inconspicuous girl with chestnut hair, dressed all in black. A white scarf flashed around her throat. Her expression was wryly amused, her eyes gleaming with expectance, a striking iniquity about her face. Her name was Scarlet. 

‘With Hugo?’ she asked. Her voice was gently and dangerously soft. ‘They could be doing any number of things.’ 

The red-haired girl settled back into her chair with a flash of irritation across her face. She was a trans girl, dressed all in black too but the sort of black that made you stand out, not blend in. She had a lot of eyeliner on and a lip piercing; if it was a fake it was a very good one. 

‘Scarlet –‘

‘Velvet?’ asked Scarlet. Amusement coloured her reply. 

‘Do you think Angel really - loves Hugo? And that Hugo loves him back?’ 

Scarlet evidently had not been expecting this question. She frowned. ‘Why, of course.’

Velvet poured whatever was in her shot glass to the ground with a mutinous expression, and then dropped the bottle. Glass splintered over the floor. ‘Yeah, that’s what I figured.’

Scarlet’s lip curved into a smile that had an edge like a blade. She leaned closer to Velvet and began speaking, but what she was saying was hidden from even those closest to them, snatched away by the reverberating beat of the music. 

Velvet stared at her, aghast but intrigued. A dark light brightened her face for a moment, a spark of deviant interest in her eyes. For a moment she paid attention to nothing of the party going on around her – she even forgot Angel. She certainly was not paying attention to Rachel Darnsby.

Rachel Darnsby was the last person in the know. Unlike the others, there was nothing particularly especial about her other than her remarkably judgemental nature. She had no unique shyness, no ethereal beauty to her; nor the rigidness, the defiance, the relaxation or the discomfort of the rest – not the call or longing for attention or the hatred of it. She was a complete outcast to their group – but a reluctant part of it, nevertheless.

Despite having turned sixteen in the past year like the majority of the party, she had the dull air of a pious adult supervisor that had arrived unwanted at the gathering. Certainly, she was attempting to quash more of the drinking games and risqué activities than the actual adult supervisor, an ineffectual man with a round, jovial face. Dressed in a police costume in the spirit of the upcoming Murder game, he had a surprising air of authority that he apparently had no inclination to use. Unfortunately for Rachel, it was the other way around; the majority of the people she attempted to scold simply laughed at her. Dressed in an old pair of jeans and grubby t-shirt with the image of an obscure band (that she listened to for the very reason that it was obscure), she was quite apart from the glossy lips and made eyebrows and flamboyant outfits of the party, and it was clear from the sanctimonious expression on her face that she thought herself better for it. Her hair was blonde, and pulled up in a shabby ponytail, wispy baby hairs escaping; her face was bar and the sort your eyes slid off without remembering. Her lips were dry, her nails bitten, and her eyes still had sleep in them. 

Rachel was a target.

All at once the lights came on and the music stopped and people began to notice that the chairs around the room were in fact in a large circle. Angel reappeared through the darkness, holding the hand of the blonde boy – Hugo – who was looking much more comfortable. 

‘It’s time,’ someone bellowed over the speakers, ‘for Wink Murder!’

The mob, finally satisfied, let out a cheer. Wink Murder had been anticipated; the rules had been detailed on the back of the invitation they had all received, this not being your average version of the game, and had been enough to intrigue. Many people were reminding one another of these rules as they began to drift off the dance floor.

‘We have to sit one seat apart,’ Angel reminded Velvet, as she attempted to sit down next to him. She moved over with a huff. 

‘That’s right, guys – one seat apart!’ bellowed the adult supervisor. His round, comedic face had developed a sudden purpose; finally in action, he quickly quelled any complaints about separation from friends or partners and even the chairs, which were the uncomfortable school sort with holes in the back – and had everyone sat down and quiet remarkably soon, which allowed him to begin a quick summary of the rules.

‘Now, remember, this isn’t your regular Wink Murder. The lights are going to turn on and off one minute at a time. The one person who received the MURDERER invitation – you and I know who you are – can ‘murder’ while the lights are off. I will be doing special effects and they can be quite gory. The game doesn’t end until someone correctly suspects the murderer and gets up to ‘kill’ them. The game doesn’t end until the murderer themselves dies. Everyone got that?’

There was a general murmur of acquiescence as everyone consulted their invitations.

‘Now to make this even more complicated, this circle is divided into four, uneven sections. You can all see them, right? They’re marked up with tape. We’ve got a big one right there – these two ones – and the smallest section is this teeny little group here.’ He gestured to Scarlet’s section. With her was the timid Sophie, the handsome Cameron and the disapproving Mali, the beautiful Angel and fearful Hugo. Andrea was not there.

In the section was also Miss Rachel Darnsby.

‘When you cross over into someone else’s section, there will be a little ‘beep’ to let everyone know where you’ve been. That way, you can figure out which section the murderer is in.’

People nodded in agreement. Invitations were tucked away. Scarlet smiled.

‘Do you think Scarlet will manage to pull it off?’ mused Cameron. He was holding hands with Sophie, the clasped palms resting on the chair between them.

Mali cast him a glance of condescension. ‘Scarlet is ambitious, but only to other people’s standards.’

‘It is quite – odd - don’t you think?’ Sophie proffered anxiously. Mali’s disparaging expression intensified into dislike; she was clearly not a fan of her brother’s girlfriend. 

‘What’s odd about it?’

‘Scarlet hates socializing with people,’ said Sophie uncomfortably. ‘But she’s put so much effort into this party. This whole elaborate game set up-' 

Mali scoffed. ‘You’re overthinking it. It’s a game.’

‘Maybe …’ Sophie was clearly unconvinced. ‘Who even are these people? Scarlet gave an invitation to basically anyone that asked for one. There are some weird people here.’

‘Weirder than Scarlet?’ joked Cameron. There was some laughter, but the joke was tinged with nerves. There was a strange feeling. They all – somewhere in their minds – knew; how much was the real question.

‘All right guys, let’s go! This is a complicated game, so let’s cross our fingers and hope for the best, yeah?’ 

Behind her chair, Scarlet Turner crossed her fingers. For what she wished, only God and Lucifer and someone – but who – knew. 

Despite the fraudulent police officer’s warning, for the first two minutes everything seemed to be running smoothly. The first person to die was a boy named Tyrone, with a rope twisted around his neck and his face rather hurriedly – but effectively – powdered a sickly sort of colour. It was not especially ghoulish, but several people screamed. Tyrone, who fancied himself something of a joker, tilted his neck at an angle and stuck his tongue out. The expression was about as frightening as his fake gags and gasps had been, but people screamed anyway, as they do. Tyrone grinned, bowed and sat down. 

‘How’d they do it so quickly?’ Hugo admired. He was finishing the dregs of his orange juice. Angel looked over; he was every bit as offensively beautiful as before, even in the new, harsh lighting of the room. Whatever was in his plastic champagne glass did not look at all as innocent as Hugo’s drink, but he was sipping it with glamorous control. His overall demeanour was remarkably collected, but it all seemed like an elaborate façade, like the party was a show that he had a part in. 

Gazes lingered. For what exactly was Angel putting on a show for? 

Angel set down his drink, the polished pointed nails wrapped around the stem of his glass. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, tone teasing. ‘Aren’t you the artistic one?’

‘My mother is, I’m not even-‘ Hugo began, but he was interrupted by Velvet. 

‘Shh - the lights are coming back on-!’ 

The next victim had long blonde hair and snakebite piercings. A gunshot sound effect had slammed into the room forty or so seconds into the minute; the wound was disconcertingly realistic. The victim looked somewhat shaken themselves – there was an odd vibe to the game – but after inspecting the fake bullet hole they seemed alright.  
Soon after, the lights were switched off. 

The next victim was a girl with braces on her teeth and kinky hair confined to two buns. Her throat had been slit with glass, was the verdict, and the makeup had been done extremely well, with crimson running down her throat and small shards caught on the skin. The girl, Jamila, was a good actress and had managed a very passable scream before the lights had turned on, which didn’t help matters. She gave a shaky grin to assure the circle that she was okay, but the more sensitive members of the group still turned away. People had hushed quickly this time. They were fidgeting, muttering, whispering. There was an odd feeling passing from person to person. There was a lazy sort of suspense to it; a dry, dramatic tune playing in the background. Perhaps it was the creepy special effects. Perhaps it was Scarlet’s strange smile. Perhaps someone with an overactive imagination had decided something odd was going on and mob mentality had done the rest. 

Perhaps. 

Minds were a little on edge, now. Everyone was waiting. Darkness blanketed the room once again.

This time there was no beep.

Rachel Darnsby had been murdered, even more impressively than the rest. An enormous blade had plunged through her rib cage, crimson soaking through the fabric of her shirt, eyes half-lidded. A puddle of urine was leaking from beneath her on the chair to the floor. This began a lively debate as to whether people released their bladders or not at death, which Scarlet, the expert on the subject, confirmed as a mostly yes.

‘It smells like pee,’ said a girl nearer to Rachel. ‘What did you use in the fake pee, Scarlet? It’s gross.’ Nervous, somewhat relieved laughter greeted her question.

Scarlet did not laugh, but did smile, a shark smile. ‘It shouldn’t,’ she said softly. ‘Oh no, the fake urine definitely should not smell. Perhaps the visual has stimulated a nasal memory. After all, it is quite, quite realistic.’ Most people merely laughed again, but a few of them turned to Rachel with new worry. She still was not moving, and there was something faintly antagonistic about Scarlet’s slyly amused tone.

‘How’d you do the knife?’ someone shouted.

Scarlet spread her hands in a dry, elaborate gesture. ‘I’m not in charge of special effects,’ she said innocently. ‘How should I know?’ 

‘The murderer killed _two_!’ someone called. Everyone turned in surprise, and there were some murmurs of disagreement, but the person was right. Poor Sophie, blushing and timid, had been strangled, throat marked with purpling fingerprints. 

‘Is that right?’ someone called indignantly. ‘I thought in the rules-‘

One of the more inquisitive girls near Rachel had got up to get a closer look at the knife and had started to scream.

‘It’s in her! It’s in her! Oh my God – oh my God – it’s in her, it’s actually in her –‘ 

‘Don’t be stupid, it’s makeup, Lauren!-‘

‘No, you don’t understand, it’s in her, it’s _in her_ -!’ 

Someone was sick.

‘Look, look, it’s not makeup …’

‘Shut up,’ said Tyrone. His face was even paler beneath the powder.

Lauren pulled on the knife. Rachel’s entire body jolted forward, convulsing terribly and strangely and someone screamed – the girl was sobbing in shock, hands coated in blood-

‘No, she’s right, she’s dead, she’s dead…’ 

‘Nah, she’s playing with us…’

‘Rachel, Rachel, open your eyes!’ 

Rachel was slapped. She did not react. Not many people had expected it to work; Rachel Darnsby was not the sort for that kind of practical joke. 

‘She’s not waking up!’

‘What do you mean-‘ 

Someone swore. 

‘Hey, isn’t there an adult here? Where’s that guy?’

‘Policeman! Policeman – hey – where’s the policeman?’

The policeman was gone. 

‘Someone call 999! Somebody – someone – call 999!’

‘It’s no use, she’s dead!’ 

‘The police still have to know…’

‘Who was the murderer? Who was it?’

‘The murderer killed someone else, stupid. The real murderer must have gotten up in the dark and …’ 

‘But there was no beep … there wasn’t any beep! None at all…’

‘Just call the police!’

‘She’s already dead –‘ 

_‘They have to know!’_

* 

Thirty-seven hours later, the police knew that Rachel Darnsby was dead, but not much else. Leading the force was Detective Inspector Boardman, a bespectacled man with hair that was fighting a battle to stay blonde and keen, intelligent eyes. He was not known especially for solving particularly interesting or unique cases, but he was diligent and – to some more importantly – he handled his work with a deft tact almost imperative in the sensitive case of a murdered fifteen-year old. With his work ethic (and, of course, the sharp Marilyn Hadling on his team) it was hard to imagine the case going wrong.

In his years on the force Boardman had seen many things, but something about this case had him decisively rattled. He felt something malevolent in the murder, something dark and strange and profoundly wrong, and it was affecting him. He was habitually massaging his temples and he hadn’t touched his coffee – but then, nobody had. Their department secretary was famously incompetent. 

‘The important thing,’ he said, ‘is the beep.’

‘Beep?’ inquired James. James was a dark-skinned, wiry young man with thoughtful, wide eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses. He had seen only a handful of murders, but he was an excellent judge of character and reaction and the unease of his superior told him that this was not the average murder case. He pushed his glasses up his nose nervously.

‘They were playing some kind of elaborate Wink Murder. Kids these days have all sorts of new games, though I gather this was something of a novelty. I can see why, too. This would have cost a fortune to set up.’ He passed the invitations round, rules facing upwards. ‘Anyway, part of this game is that their circle was divided into sections by motion sensors. If someone walked out of a section, there was a beep. The only kids in Rachel Darnsby’s section were; a Miss Scarlet Turner, a Mr Advik Acharya – who goes almost entirely by his nickname, Angel – a Hugo Dawns, a Sophie White, Miss Mali and Mr Cameron Boateng, and lastly a Miss Velvet Brookman, whose legal – but, naturally, unused name – is Victor.’

‘In short,’ said Marilyn coolly, ‘Scarlet, Angel, Hugo, Sophie, Mali, Cameron and Velvet are really the only people in the circle who could have murdered Rachel without the sound of a beep – if we rule out tampering with the sound equipment.’

‘All the equipment is perfectly fine,’ James spoke up. ‘We even tested it while we were there. You walk over the tape, there’s a beep. There was no sign of any previous tampering and it hadn’t been turned off.’ 

Marilyn nodded and noted something down. Marilyn was a petite woman with burgundy hair in a severe bob and large glasses with thick black rims. She appeared to disconcert Detective Inspector Boardman. 

‘Are we sure there wasn’t a beep?’ This was the last detective, a man named Percival. He was a plump man whose round face often could sharpen into a surprising shrewdness. Having been to police academy with Marilyn, he was perhaps the only one in the group accustomed to her intellect and brutally honest manner of speaking. He was not an especially high-achieving man, but had a strong work ethic and had served many years on the force; a round-faced, balding man with a kind smile that hid a suspicious nature – that was now coming to the fore. ‘I mean, it’s perfectly plausible that the kids were lying to get themselves out of trouble.’ 

‘Every kid in the party promises there wasn’t any beep,’ said James. 

Percival made a loud, disparaging noise. ‘So murderers can’t promise, eh?’ 

James shook his head. ‘They were kids. Just – just kids. I don’t know. They weren’t murderers – or liars. They just wanted a good time.’

Percival chuckled darkly.

‘While I agree that their young years do not rule them out,’ Marilyn said in clipped tones, ‘I do not find it plausible that every child there was willing to lie to the police. This murder was not a manslaughter. There has been no accident. That blade in Rachel Darnsby was wiped completely clean – sterilized – which would have had to happen within that one minute of darkness for nobody to notice. Whoever did this has done it with forethought and has done it well.’ 

‘Marilyn’s right,’ said Boardman gravely. ‘We can’t afford to mess around.’

James had been drumming his fingertips on the table, worn with doodles and coffee stains. Marilyn cast him a sharp glance and the sound petered out, but she continued to stare until James spoke his mind.

‘Rachel was sixteen. Most people there were her age. Who would have had the motive or the nerve to kill her?’

‘I’m assuming,’ said Marilyn, in terse tones, ‘one or more of seven aforementioned.’

‘Or more?’ Percival repeated keenly. ‘In the plural?’

‘It’s very possible they were acting together,’ said Detective Inspector Boardman. ‘I hear they’re a tight-knit bunch, these seven – and they all go to this club.’ He passed round a flyer. It was black, a black that whispered dark things. 

-Murder Club- was written on it in gaunt, red ink. A sense of unease settled like dust. James broke the silence.

‘It’s just some kids messing around, surely.’

‘Well, I’d say so too if I saw it in passing, but think about it. A girl is murdered. All the evidence points to seven suspects. All of them go to this club. If it’s a coincidence, it’s a fascinatingly appropriate one.’  
Marilyn shuffled her papers. Her fingernails were painted white. ‘I do not think all of these children are murderers, yet, Inspector. None of the evidence we have gained points to anything near conclusive on any one of the children – however, I do believe that our primary suspect is Miss Scarlet Turner. The statement we received about her from her mother is disturbing – quite disturbing.’

Percival and James scrambled to find the statement on Miss Scarlet Turner in the manner of schoolchildren attempting to catch up on the book the class was reading.

‘Definitely,’ said Boardman grimly. ‘I mean, I think it’s pretty safe to assume that she’s the grand orchestrator in all of this, but I don’t think she did this alone. This whole elaborate plan – she needed a network, some pawns, and she found one in this group of kids. I don’t think any of them were murderers before they met Scarlet, but who knows how many she’s turned on the way.’

‘They might not need turning, if they’re going to a Murder Club,’ Percival remarked.

‘Well, they’ve all got their stories for why they were there – none of which was a particular interest in murder. And we can’t accuse any of them – no, not yet – but I think Scarlet could easily manipulate a very large number of these kids, the base majority of them.’ 

‘Shouldn’t we focus on Scarlet?’ Percival proffered. 

‘Oh,’ said Marilyn, in the sort of voice that suggested that whatever she was commenting on was particularly stupid. ‘I don’t think Ms Turner is the sort to be caught without extreme effort or intellectualism on our side.’ She took a delicate sip of coffee, made a face, and then dropped it in the nearest wastebin. ‘We would be better off, I think, trying to uncover who her pawns are. If we even manage to build up a case about Scarlet herself, she will never talk and say who her accomplice was. The other way round, however …’

‘We can get them to incriminate Scarlet,’ said Boardman, in grim satisfaction. 

Percival did not look particularly bothered by Marilyn’s tone, but his lips did draw in a little. ‘Alright, fine. So, who are these kids?’

Boardman pulled out his notes. ‘We have Advik – Advik “Angel” Acharya. He’s due to turn sixteen near the end of August. If he’s our pawn, we’ll have a tough time gathering anything from him. You’d spend an age trying for that boy to talk genuinely. I’m not sure if Scarlet could turn him – I’d be more inclined to see him do something like that for his own ends, but I don’t know what they would be. I have no idea what’s going on underneath that boy’s surface – but I’ll bet you it’s not pretty.’

Angel was staring blankly at the wall, his expression beautifully composed, as if he was attending a boring seminar or luncheon rather than in a holding cell. He did nothing but blink, showcasing eyelids of golden glitter. So far his only request had been to see Hugo. It had been denied. Since then he had not moved or spoken except to drink some of his water.

‘We have Velvet Brookman. She’s already sixteen, turned last October. She wears her heart on her sleeve, and it’s easily swayed. A troubled girl. A very easy target for manipulation. I don’t think she’s a particularly vindictive young woman, but Scarlet could easily push her into something and I don’t think she thinks things through very well.’

Velvet’s mascara had run down in inky tears, her scarlet hair a ruffled mess. She had cried and shouted and even punched the wall, but all she had accomplished were split knuckles. She had not asked to see anyone. 

‘Hugo Dawns. Also sixteen, turned last December. His mother is remarkably rich; she works from home as an artist. He’s a very -sweet- boy, on all accounts. Got a lovely kind heart, his grades are steady, and he’s the only one out of the lot that really has a stable, healthy home life. Unfortunately, the amount of shelter he’s had has made him really a little naïve. I don’t think he’d realize what Scarlet was doing until it was far too late – and even if he did, he’s got none of the mettle or fortitude of the rest of them. Would he even stand up to her?’

Hugo had been crying, eyes ringed with red. He was sniffling, having already almost exhausted the box of tissues next to him, and had cried for both Angel and his mother. A policewoman was attempting to console him. 

‘Sophie White, turned sixteen in February. Very sensible, responsible girl, but I think that that comes from trauma more than anything. Her mother was convicted for abuse. She committed suicide when Sophie was nine. She was happy enough in her care home, then got moved out to live with her brother – who’s just been convicted for domestic violence. She’s living with her brother’s ex-girlfriend, Andrea, but she clearly hasn’t had a happy life. I think she’s a little desperate for loving relationships. Who knows how’d she repay Scarlet if she was just a little nice to her?’ 

Sophie’s eyes were smudged around in rings of mascara, and her face was greyish and wet, but she was no longer crying. She sat in a defensive position, head down, arms curled around her waist like a hug that nobody else would give her. 

‘Cameron and Mali Boateng. Cameron was sixteen in September, Mali early this month. Both of them are looked after by their Aunt – a Clare Boateng; their father was deemed unfit to care for them when they were ten. Cameron seems nice – he’s a happy-go-lucky, cheerful boy, friends with everyone – but there’s something there. He’s got a nasty temper. If it was directed at Rachel I wouldn’t like to be her. If he had a motive to kill Miss Darnsby I’d place my money on him – but there’s none we know of yet. Then there’s Mali – a very rigid, meticulous, sensible girl. It comes from previous life experiences, I suppose. I think she acts a sort of carer to Cameron – even more than their aunt does. She’d be a good murderer – she’s very precise – but yet again, we've no idea of a motive. She’s very responsible and clearly loves her brother a great deal.’

Cameron had shouted and raved and screamed himself hoarse inside his cell – punching walls, kicking chairs, until his voice was a rasp and his face contorted with rage and pain and tears. He had been threatened with sedation and quieted in response, but he was still visibly furious. He was tearing a piece of paper into shreds.

Mali sat prim and proper, her face completely calm, but she had grown anxious when she heard shouts from Cameron in the room next to her. She had begged to see him but been refused every time. After a quiet explanation as to why they could not see each other, she had regained some of her composure but continued to persist with questions; on the pending investigation, why she and her brother in particular had been called in, and how Cameron was doing. Once the policewoman revealed that he had now quieted she was visibly relieved. 

‘And then of course we have Miss Scarlet Turner. Cool as you please. Seems amused by it all if anything. Her mother makes quite a large amount of money. Not in contact with her father. Social workers say that Scarlet maintains that “she sees no point” – quite a common rhetoric in children with divorced parents, but I’ve received the opinion that Scarlet “quite frankly means it”. Her grades are excellent, but most of her teachers barely know she’s there, she’s so quiet. She’s very detached. And of course she has this dark obsession – infatuation – with murder. Terrifying, I think it is. Quite, quite terrifying. She was the one who set up this Murder Club.’

Scarlet looked like a skull. Her eyes were glassy and seemingly unseeing, her mouth stretched into a morbid smile. She had finished the water. 

The only thing she had said had not been to Inspector Boardman. Instead, she had addressed Marilyn Hadling.

_‘Bring it on.'_

‘She’s done it,’ said Percival, his round red face wobbling with conviction. ‘I’m sure she’s done it.’

‘Surety,’ said Marilyn, ‘is rarely credible without evidence.’

‘They go to a blooming Murder Club,’ said Percival. ‘That’s evidence enough for me.’ 

‘There were extenuating circumstances,’ said James. ‘None of these kids except Scarlet have claimed to have gone there out of any interest in murder.’

‘I wouldn’t either, if I was on trial for murdering someone,’ Percival scoffed.

‘Well, their stories are rather detailed,’ Boardman mused, ‘And for the kids that signed up together, they all correlate.’ 

‘They do, hmmm?’ asked Marilyn. She sounded displeased. ‘Certainly makes our work a little more difficult. And what exactly are these … stories?’


	2. The Beauty of Iniquity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out why everyone signed up for Murder Club, and a little bit about who they are - some, of course, more than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading!
> 
> TW: Domestic violence, references to the fact that we're killing our planet, references to murder/death though not described graphically

**43 Elmwood Grove {Scarlet’s House}, 4:34 am, 31st August 2016**

Scarlet was writing. She wrote in a neat, but no-nonsense, script. 

_Name of Victim: Jack Marks_   
_Ethnicity: Biracial_   
_Age: 17_   
_Suspects:_

‘Scarlet. Scarlet!’

She put down the pen. Her mother stared, exasperated, at the scene in front of her.

Cliffs of leather-bound journals, all a dull black, loomed over a sea of desk; four lever arch folders, similarly morose, and all but the last stuffed full of plastic wallets, were lined up like soldiers on a shelf. Each one contained line after line of handwritten information. Posters of mass murderers, poisoners, terrorists, serial killers, suicide bombers, gang members and manslaughterers marred the white of the walls, each poster meticulously kept. One wall was dedicated to a shrine of fictional characters: Eurus Holmes; an artist’s likeness of Jack Merridew, accompanied by Roger; Bellatrix Lestrange. And then, segregated by a small partition of plain wall – multiple Sherlock’s and John Watson’s, Richard Poole and Humphrey Goodman, Miss Marple, even Agatha Raisin... 

The entire room, spare for the mahogany floorboards and table, was monochrome.

At the desk, much smaller than the mountains of notes made in the journals, sat a teenage girl. She was nothing remarkable, as teenage girls went; chestnut hair cropped jaw-length, average enough features, and freckles dotting her nose, but the skin over her cheekbones appeared to be stretched just a little too tightly. It gave her a skull-like appearance that was enhanced by the emptiness in her eyes. She was writing in a journal identical to all the others piled on the table, in neat cursive.

‘I’m writing. I can’t talk,’ she said petulantly. Her mother didn’t move. Scarlet’s mouth set into a petulant pout. ‘Mother. Would you please close the door? I should be finished in around forty-five minutes.’

‘No, I won’t,’ said her mother. ‘I want to talk to you.’ 

She was at the door. She rarely left her post at the door. She seemed almost afraid to enter Scarlet’s black-and-white graveyard.

Scarlet’s frown deepened; she picked up the pen again. ‘Sorry, Mother.’ 

_Katherine Leeds-_

She noticed that she was still not alone, and glared. ‘Mother, I’m busy.’ 

‘Scarlet,’ said her mother, and her voice rose sharply, ‘I want to speak to you. About ... about this.’ She gestured around the room. ‘About all of this.’

Scarlet’s brow crumpled. ‘Mother, I’ve already said, I’m busy with this.’

‘Well, when _will_ you be finished with it, Scarlet?’ Her voice changed into something pained and animalistic. Shetook a step forward, arms folding over her chest, and then hurriedly stepped back.

‘I already said, forty-five minutes, though I must repeat my warning that that is an approximation.’

Her mother took a deep breath and spat out the words from between her teeth. ‘I didn’t mean _today_ , Scarlet.'

Scarlet turned slowly in her chair. 'You sound like you want to say something.’

‘I _do_ , Scarlet! I do! That’s what I’ve been telling you. Why can’t you _listen_?’

Scarlet turned slowly in her chair. 

‘You spend your time obsessing over murder, Scarlet. It’s not normal. Look – you record every murder that’s happened in the last three years, up until today, in these notebooks. I don’t know how you find time for it all. Scarlet, I’ve never tried to stop you having interests or - or pursuing your passions- I’m not that type of parent-‘

‘Two years,’ Scarlet corrected, ‘three months, and fourteen days. And I have not even done that, technically, because you’ve interrupted me today.’

‘Scarlet, this can’t go on. This sick – this sick obsession... Scarlet! Scarlet, what is _that_?’ Her mother’s voice rose to a hysterical scream.

‘Don’t go near that table. It’s my experiments table.’

‘Experiments,’ her mother said shakily. ‘Scarlet, explain to me these ... these experiments, please.’ Scarlet opened her mouth, but was cut short. ‘In fact, don’t. But I want those sick ... all of those sick things out today. And those posters taken down – and those journals – these journals – I want them burnt. You’re going to be a normal girl with normal interests.’

For a moment, Scarlet just stared at her mother, then she shook her hair back, and then she spoke.

‘I shan’t.’

‘I’m your mother and you will do what I say.’

‘Why aren’t you afraid of me?’

The question took her mother aback; she stared at her. Then, ‘you’re my daughter, Scarlet.’

‘Oh. Is that why?’

‘Why _what_?’ Her mother’s voice rose again. ‘Scarlet, you’re not making sense.’

‘Why you’re not afraid.’ Her mother began to talk, but Scarlet ploughed on. ‘I know very much about murder. If there were a university course, I’d think I’m capable of getting a doctorate. People are scared of murder, aren’t they? Why aren’t you scared?’

‘Of course I’m not scared, Scarlet,’ said her mother, with impressive bravado.

You should be. You were scared of just my little experiments. You should be scared for you. If you tried to burn my journals I could kill you immediately, and no-one would suspect me and, perhaps, no-one would find the body. Depending on its relevance.’

‘You wouldn’t. Scarlet – Scarlet, you wouldn’t threaten me in my own home - and you wouldn't kill me, either. Because I'm your _mother_.’

‘I would,’ said Scarlet. ‘I have a folder of ways to murder you and not be caught, not if I don’t want. But that’s only if you tried to stop me.’

Her mother’s head jerked, and Scarlet smiled.

‘You are afraid,’ she said. ‘I studied humans too,’ she explained. ‘You have to understand what you are killing. That’s what the fourth folder is for. I thought I’d have to redo my experiments to see if you were an anomaly.’

‘Scarlet ... Scarlet, I think I’m going to get you some professional help,’ her mother said. 

‘And toast and eggs,’ Scarlet suggested.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Toast. And eggs. I’m hungry. And I shouldn’t like professional help, not right now. I might consider it. But I’d prefer it if you didn’t. Is there anything I can do to maybe stop you having me assessed?’ 

Her mother pursed her lips and put on the cheerful half-smile of a parent happy to fool themselves. ‘A club,’ she said. ‘Join a club – or make a club – at your school. Make some friends. I don’t – I don’t like how alone you are. How much time you spend with yourself. You only ever corrupt your mind further when you’re left to stew.’ 

Scarlet sat down. ‘Thank you. And remember the toast. And the eggs.’

Her mother sighed. ‘Would you like tea?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘And, Scarlet – I really don’t like those experiments in my house.’

Scarlet shrugged daintily. It looked odd on her thin, awkward shoulders. 

‘I know.’ 

‘I’m sure you’ll find that your new friends replace love for ... for ...’ She did not continue, apparently not wanting to describe all that was in front of her. ‘Experiments.’

‘No,’ said Scarlet. ‘My experiments are important, very important.’ She paused. ‘But I’ll make a club.’

Her mother’s shoulders loosened a little. ‘Good.’ 

‘Toast and eggs.’

‘I know.’

‘Don’t forget.’

‘I won’t, Scarlet.’

‘Good.’

 _…Suspect: Janet Archers; 23 years old, Caucasian …_  
*

‘All right,’ said James cautiously, ‘we’ve got Scarlet – strange, territorial, murderous girl – but then we’ve got all of these other, normal kids, right? How on earth did they end up there?’

‘Normal is a subjective word,’ said Marilyn dryly, ‘but there are not many interpretations I can think of that these children would slot into neatly.’ 

‘Disturbed, abused, unhappy, unhealthy,’ said Boardman. ‘Scared, sad… these kids haven’t had the best of things.’

Percival chuckled. ‘Normal enough, then.’

‘I believe you may, unfortunately, be right, Percival,’ said Marilyn. She sounded rather distant. ‘But yes … these children- they all were drawn, for their different reasons, to this Murder Club. I am unsure as to which is the most worrying. Rachel – our victim – was there purely out of necessity, if I am correct?’

Boardman nodded. ‘Yeah – we’ve got a girl named Anastazja Szczecin. She said that Rachel was coerced to attend the club as a prefect.’

‘Coerced is a bit of a strong word, no?’ Percival asked. 

‘The girl we talked to – Anastazja – was very clear on the matter. Uh …’ He flipped through the transcript. ‘Yes. Very sensible girl. She asked…’ he checked the transcript. ‘Yes, she just asked how Angel was – asked how everyone was – and then told us quite plainly. She had been pulled behind and witnessed Rachel asking Ms Hemsworth not to make her go.’

 **September 4th, 8:00 am, Dewbrook Independent School**

The classroom was brightly lit, showcasing a sea of neat plaits and gelled fringes, faces devoid of makeup, neat blouses, creased trousers and pressed skirts; Ms Hemsworth – the prefect’s coordinator by unpopular demand – was infamous for her focus on the way her students dressed. She beamed round the group expectantly. 

Some wore the smug expressions that said they were her favourites and knew it. A few sat earnest and open-faced, in genuine enjoyment of their role (which was admirable, as they sat amongst their less optimistic counterparts, who stared at Ms Hemsworth which what could best be described as glum scepticism) and others looked simply rather bored. While they enjoyed the shiny badge, elevated status and – of course – the authority over their fellow students, in such meetings they were little more than Ms Hemsworth’s secretary. 

It was among these that Rachel Darnsby sat; fine blonde hair in a tight ponytail that was more for practicality than anything, with a band unable to contain the wispy baby hairs upfront; dull eyes hidden behind somewhat disfiguring glasses, acne scars that made her cheeks bumpy, chapped lips, bitten nails and dry hands. She was by no means bothered by any of this; short nails made typing quicker, she had a habit of pulling at the loose skin with her teeth, and it was a bother to cream her hands every morning. Rachel had her own sort of unpolished charm. There was a quirky humour to her mouth that drew attention to her masked attractiveness, and intelligence in her eyes that suggested that, despite her persistent untidiness, Rachel could be remarkably pedantic when she wanted to. 

However, at this particular time of day, she could not feel less pedantic. Yet still, Miss Hemsworth droned on.

‘Multiple school clubs are on the rise lately, and a large number of them are feared to be inappropriate,’ she began, in her clipped, bored tones. ‘As trusted prefects, we have delegated you to attend these clubs for a week or two, to evaluate whether or not the club should be continued. Now, Daniel, you shall attend Gaming Club, Sarah, you shall attend-‘

Finally, Ms Hemsworth’s eyes found Rachel’s. For reasons unknown, Ms Hemsworth had taken a dislike to her in Year Eight Geography, and she was thusly condemned forever after.  
‘Rachel,’ she said, with a bright, simpering smile, but her eyes were cold and unfeeling. They reminded Rachel of some sort of dead fish.

She hoped to soon see Ms Hemsworth’s head on a block of ice.

‘Murder Club, love,’ she beamed, handing her a flyer. ‘I’m sure it’ll be... interesting.’

Rachel ground her teeth in irritation as the rest of the group began to leave.

‘Anastasia-‘ Ms Hemsworth began.

‘It’s Anastazja, Miss.’ 

‘Anastazja,’ Ms Hemsworth corrected, with a displeased but firmly in place smile. ‘Would you wait behind a moment? We can discuss the length of your skirt.’ 

Anastazja had had a heated debate with Ms Hemsworth on the subject of her skirt and the impact it had on her education (none at all, she complained) that ended with Ms Hemsworth abruptly telling her to wait as Rachel was clearly “very patiently waiting”. Clearly expecting Rachel, one of the more quiet ones, to be a lot more obedient than the somewhat rebellious Anastazja, she looked extremely put out that Rachel too was arguing with her. She cut it off rather swiftly. 

‘Murder Club,’ she said crossly, ‘is hardly not a cause for worry, Rachel. I expect to see you there. I will be checking with the club organizer on your attendance, in fact.’ 

‘The club organizer being?’ asked Rachel sceptically. 

‘I suppose,’ said Ms Hemsworth, with that empty beam, ‘you’ll find out.’ 

*

‘Rachel did as she was told. Signed up for the club and went,’ said Boardman. His jaw had clenched a little. ‘Poor kid.’

‘Found out alright, didn’t she?’ asked Percival grimly. 

‘What about the rest?’ asked Marilyn, who didn’t appear particularly interested in Rachel Darnsby. ‘Hugo, Cameron, Mali, Angel … they can’t all have been forced there.’ 

‘Oh, no. They all made their decisions – of their own volition – over the next couple of days. Their reasons all seem credible, but could very easily be lies … Hugo, Velvet and Angel signed up together and their stories all worked very nicely to be untruths. We think Mali and Cameron gave a similar account, but Cameron’s was hardly very coherent. He’s in a bit of a state. Sophie signed up on her own.’ 

‘What possible credible reasons could they even have?’ asked James. 

‘Well, I’ve got what they said – you judge for yourselves.’ Boardman pulled out the papers and the department began to read. 

*  
 **September 4th, 7:46am, Queensroad Council Flat 7A**

‘What the hell is this?’ Jerome snapped. 

Sophie flinched slightly. ‘It’s omelette, Jerome. That’s what you always have.’

‘That’s what you always have,’ Jerome mocked. ‘I know it’s what I always have. Don’t you have a brain? Are you that stupid? You only know how to cook one thing?’ As usual, his words were punctuated with frequent expletives.

‘I’m sorry, Jerome, I’ll-‘

‘I’m sorry, Jerome,’ he mocked. ‘You’re pathetic.’ He chucked the plate at the wall, flakes of the omelette and shards of china scattering to the floor. ‘You gonna cook me something else?’

‘I’ll be late to school-‘

She felt it before she saw it. Not a slap, like it usually was, but a proper punch. One moment she felt shock, then her head hitting the floor, and then the pain.

‘I don’t care if you get to school or not. I care about my breakfast. Now get to the kitchen. It’s not like you’re good for anything else. Your grades picked up?’ She didn’t answer. He sneered and spat at her. ‘I guess you’d better get on with it, then.’

She picked herself up off the floor and made toast with shaking hands. He bit into it, chucked the plate at her, and left. 

After he was gone, Sophie spent a vainly unusual time staring at herself in the mirror. She was bigger and plainer than she would have liked, but her skin was soft and her hair long and ringleted. She’d have liked a different colour to brown. There were bruises already forming, like early violets, disfiguring her cheek into a bumpy mess. From her chin to her lip ran a scar, thin and curved like a blade, and on one side of her face there was a cut, blooming like a rose, that she covered with a plaster as neatly as she could. The plate had just scraped her. Applying makeup to hide her bruises was made easy by routine, but the fact that her fingers were quivering made it take longer than she thought it would have. She walked into the form room late, mumbling an apology to the teacher, who, luckily, clearly couldn’t care less. She was droning on in a speech that sounded like she was reading from a teleprompter; it was apparent that talking to the class was the last thing that she would choose to be doing if presented with the choice.

‘Football and Dance Club needing members –‘

Sophie found her gaze wondering to Tanseem Sai, who was listening attentively. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, her slim figure accentuated but not too revealingly (not that Sophie thought that mattered, but that sort of thing was important to Tanseem) and Sophie couldn’t help but feel self-conscious.

‘Extracurricular activities are extremely important –‘

Tanseem wouldn’t let Jerome push her around.

‘Universities look for–‘

Tanseem was pretty, and confident – confident. That was what Sophie wanted to be. Someone confident, someone scary.

‘Something for everyone –‘

Miss was handing out wallets now, full of flyers. Sophie glanced down at it.

‘It will boost your confidence –‘ 

Sophie opened it. She flicked through, each flyer making her more self-conscious than the next. She didn’t have any particular talents. She couldn’t do Sport. There was no hope for getting into Tanseem’s girl's society. 

The last flyer was the one that caught her attention. It was black, but not a boring black. This black was here to threaten you.

_Murder Club._

Someone confident. Someone scary.

*  
 **September 4th, 8:32 am, Dewbrook Independent School**

‘These polar bears need your help, Velvet. Not everybody can personally visit the abandoned remnants of the once-habitats that we have destroyed, but we can make a difference. That’s why…’

‘I’ll sign the bloody petition, Hugo.’ 

Hugo beamed. ‘Do you need a pen?’ 

Velvet took the pen and signed with a disgruntled flourish. The only colour on her was her scarlet hair and a red SHE/HER badge displayed on the front of her jacket. Other than that, it was black; black skinny jeans, black leather jacket, and a pair of black boots with bat wings. ‘How come I’m the only one you’re practising your petition speeches on today, anyway? Doesn’t Angel need to save the polar bears?’

Hugo gave her a disapproving look. ‘Everyone needs to save the polar bears.’

‘So, why not him?’ Velvet prodded Angel. ‘He’s better for your ego, too – he pretends to care.’ 

Angel hadn’t looked up from the elaborate nail kit set out in front of him, but he did at last respond to his friends’ conversation. ‘I signed it already, thank you very much, because I’m environmentally conscious,’ he said, with a healthy amount of self-satisfaction. He took a moment to fix Velvet with a judgemental stare before returning to his current occupation; painstakingly painting each polished nail a shimmering shade of rose gold. 

‘I still don’t understand why you’re doing your makeup here,’ said Velvet. ‘Don’t you wake up, like, three hours early to do your stupid beauty routine?’

Angel scowled. ‘It’s not stupid. And I’m doing it now because my dad is having a hissy fit.’ He dabbed at a nail with tissue. ‘Normally he can’t even tell the difference between foundation and eye shadow, but we had a fight last night and I he’s looking for a reason to go at me. If he noticed anything on my face I’d be for it.’ 

‘What did you fight about?’ Hugo looked more anxious than Velvet about this; he and his mother never really fought about anything, and as such every disagreement was, at least to him, a milestone. He failed to understand Angel and Velvet’s almost habitual familial arguments, and the concept that it took nothing especial to trigger them.

Angel rolled his eyes as he examined various points of his face in the mirror. ‘I stayed behind at school to work on my Dance coursework, but he refused to believe that that what I was doing. He was interrogating me.’

‘Well, why would you lie?’ asked Hugo indignantly. 

Angel pouted. His lips were glossy pink. ‘As always, he doesn’t like to think that I do any work in Dance, because he thinks it’s a useless subject that you don’t need to put any work into. He’s convinced I took it as a cop-out and as such, any time I refer to any Dance work, it’s immediately suspect in his mind. He has no respect for any of my interests at all.’ 

‘So, I’m guessing you told him that?’ Velvet asked dryly. Last year Velvet’s life had been a painful string of repetitive arguments with her parents, most notably about her transition but also her red hair, grades and even the lip piercing – which she refused to tell them was fake on principle. Now they had fizzled out into a bitter neutrality in which each party avoided the other, but she was certainly able to understand Angel’s current predicament. 

‘Yeah, I told him. Someone needs to, since my mother does nothing to stick up for me.’ Angel had abandoned his nail kit now, instead choosing to fully commit to the gossip. ‘He was shocked I even took a Textiles exam when he saw my Mock timetable. That’s how much he values my interests. But, of course he knows exactly what’s going on in Jayesh’s boring Biology A-Level, and he’s helping Hiran on his material for his dentistry course, and giving Riya “advice” on her new placement, because they’re all the exact things he did.’ He blew on another nail mutinously. ‘Well, I’m not just an extension of him that he can project his own failed life ambitions onto. And I don’t plan to be.’

As the conversation deepened, Hugo grew more and more unable to relate. He often worried about times like this, when Angel and Velvet were so lost in their own, similar lives that they seemed to forget he was there. Hugo was sure that it was their mutual spirit of rebelliousness that meant that they enjoyed each other’s company; as for why they humoured him, he had no idea. He felt quite left out of their squabble, and was relieved when a reason for him to climb back into the conversation approached, albeit with a scheming, cold smile on her face.

‘Angel, it’s Tanseem,’ he piped up.

‘Really.’ Angel shook his hair as he pouted, but, as if enchanted by some incredible magic, it fell directly back into place. ‘It’s raining outside. I thought she would have melted.’

‘Maybe she wants to sign your petition,’ Velvet snickered. 

Angel scowled.

The only thing he and Tanseem had in common was their mutual family; but, unlike Angel, Tanseem preferred to do things the “right” way. Her parents bragged about her, and his parents ranted about her in attempts to goad him into some façade of acceptable behaviour. These complaints, however, fell on deaf ears. Angel had never been interested in anything but defying all expectations, wherever they came from.

Just as his entire family did, Tanseem took Angel’s entire being to heart, and it was unsure which one hated the other more. Hugo suspected that Angel hated Tanseem more than the rest of his family because they used to be friends. Angel maintained that it was because she came to his school and he therefore had more exposure. This production of denial was a point that neither Velvet nor Hugo attempted to argue.

‘As a matter of fact,’ Tanseem said, looking pointedly at Velvet, ‘I do want to sign Hugo’s petition. Move over, cousin dear.’

Velvet stared at her stonily. Angel glared. ‘Why do you want to sign it for anyway? Don’t you still think climate change is a hoax?’ Velvet snorted.

Tanseem sighed as if the three of them should already be aware of whatever she was talking about and sat down. ‘I’ve been working on my applications and personal statements-‘

‘This is already boring.’

‘And I’m trying to increase the status of my club.’  
‘That “exclusive ladies club”?’ Angel rolled his eyes. Velvet snorted. 

‘The school give eight awards,’ Tanseem continued sanctimoniously. ‘The Most Ambitious; The Scariest; Best Aesthetic; Most Competitive; Most Popular; Most Enjoyable and Most Socially Aware. We plan to win every single award.’

‘Every one?’ Hugo blinked. ‘That seems a little... over the top?’

Velvet rolled her eyes. ‘What he’s trying to say is that you’re insane and it’ll never work.’

Tanseem loftily disregarded everything Velvet said (as she enjoyed to do) and turned her eyes to Hugo.

‘We’re focusing on being Socially Aware, so we need shots of me signing your petition.’ 

Hugo shrugged. ‘Do you need a pen?’

‘Hugo!’ Angel snapped.

‘I’m not sacrificing polar bears in order to be petty!’ 

Tanseem clicked her fingers. A harassed looking sixth former scrambled into position and began taking shots of Tanseem signing the petition.

‘Get a shot of me on this side so you can see what I’m signing properly, you incompetent fool. Are you sure you should have taken Media for A-Level?’ Tanseem hissed. Her tone was vituperatively without regret, a sharp contrast to the kind, dazzling smile on her face. She flipped her hair and posed sickeningly sweetly for the photograph. As soon as the camera boy scurried off, the smile dropped. 

‘Have fun with your ...’ Tanseem gestured disparagingly towards the nail kit. ‘Whatever this is. And if your dad finds out about this –‘

‘I suppose that’s your way of telling me that you’re going to tell?’ Angel sneered. ‘Go ahead.’ 

‘If that’s what you want,’ Tanseem hissed, ‘fine.’ She flounced off to join her friends. Angel glared after her.

‘We’re ruining her plans,’ Angel said, as soon as she was out of earshot. ‘We’re joining a club and making sure it wins an award. Let’s go check the Extracurricular Activities Board. Now.’

The board was covered with a series of bright posters, which they began to examine for anything likely; unfortunately, there was not much.

‘Dance Club,’ said Hugo. ‘You’re good at dance.’

‘And you two aren’t – which,’ he added, ‘means you’d fit right in. There’s a reason I did dance outside of school. Our studio is awful, the students have no talent, and they understand absolutely no theory.’ Angel lent against the board. ‘Something else. Something that could easily win the award.’

‘Art Club,’ said Velvet. ‘I could do Art. You two aren’t bad.’

‘It’s run by Scotty Carter’s sister,’ Hugo said helpfully.

‘Nope,’ Angel said immediately.

‘What happened between you and Scotty?’ Velvet asked curiously.

‘What happened is none of your business,’ Angel snapped.

Velvet arched her eyebrows at Hugo, who made his “I don’t tell Angel’s secrets” face. Velvet looked away, irritated.

‘This looks like it could win the Scariest award,’ said Hugo apprehensively. 

Angel took it, then blinked. ‘ _Murder Club_?’

‘It’s going to be pretentious as hell,’ Velvet said. 

‘But it’s way scarier than whatever Tanseem’s little girl gang are,’ Angel said. ‘And there’ll be less people going there than anywhere else– which is just the way I like it.’

‘Wait,' Hugo said. 'We can’t seriously be going to a Murder Club.’

Velvet grinned. ‘Look at it positively. It’s an excuse for you to make new custom t-shirts. Anyway, I need to go to the canteen. I’ll catch you later.’ She sauntered off without waiting for a reply. Neither Angel nor Hugo questioned it. Velvet was a habitually impatient creature. 

‘You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,’ Angel said to Hugo. ‘You know that, right?’

‘Don’t be silly. What would I even do without you?’ asked Hugo playfully.

‘Wander around all dejected-looking. Have no-one to practise your panda speeches to. Eat all your special egg-free cupcakes alone.’ 

Hugo stuck out his tongue, but then he paused. ‘Angel, are you seriously doing all of this just to annoy Tanseem?’

Angel smirked. ‘Hugo, if committing a murder would get Tanseem’s back up, I’d do it in a heartbeat.’

*

 **September 4th, 9:13am, Dewbrook Independent School**  
‘Don’t get kicked off the basketball team. The only thing you’re good at is basketball,’ Mali said bluntly.

Cameron glared. ‘Thanks for the tote of confidence, sis.’

‘You mean vote.’

‘Whatever.’

‘And it’s not my fault that you’re a failure at applying yourself.’

Cameron scowled again. ‘I’m just not good at school. In general.’

‘Except basketball.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you’re getting kicked off the team.’

‘You’ve made your point!’ Cameron scrunched up his homework sheet and threw it violently into the recycling bin; it landed inside, but his dour mood meant that he did not celebrate it with the customary whoop. 

Mali walked over to the bin and took the sheet. ‘If you want to keep your spot, you have to keep your grades and behaviour up to a decent standard at least. That means completing your work.’

Cameron accepted his sister’s advice with a sour expression. Cameron and Mali looked almost ridiculously alike and were often mistaken for twins as they were in the same school year, but the truth was that Cameron was born in September and Mali in August. They shared the same dark skin tone, striking, proud features and mildly terrifying height. However, Cameron liked to compensate for his frightening appearance with bright clothes, a constant smile and a bubbly, happy-go-lucky personality. Mali’s bluntness, consistently irritated face and motto of disregarding the people she disliked and disliking the majority of the people she met only fed into an intimidating demeanour.

Mali did not particularly care. She had no patience for the stupid or easily frightened. Had she not any blood ties to Cameron, Mali often wondered if she’d bother at all. But here she was, smoothing out the crinkles in the abandoned maths sheet and giving him a book of extracurricular activities to flick through.

‘Boring. Stupid. Nerdy. Gross. Boring. Boring. Boring –‘

‘Does everything bore you?’

‘Everything except basketball.’

‘Be serious for once!’ 

Cameron flicked moodily through the flyer, hoping to find something suitably ludicrous. Failure had always made him somewhat petulant. ‘In fact, yeah. I’ll go here. I’ll go to Murder Club.’

Mali scoffed and snatched the flyer. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m being serious. _For once_ ,’ he added mockingly.

‘You’ll end up getting expelled. If not arrested.’

‘It’s a legitimate club. They can’t get mad because I go. And neither can you.’

‘Yes, I can!’ 

‘If you’re that worried, you can come with me!’ 

‘Fine!’ Mali snapped, and the brittle tension snapped like a biscuit.

Cameron scowled. ‘I didn’t mean you have to.’

‘I know that.’

Mali’s jaw was set. Cameron recognized the flash of stubbornness in Mali’s eyes as a reflection of what he saw in his own and backed away from it.

‘Alright. So we’ll both go. Murder Club.’

‘You can change it if you want.’ Mali sounded amused.

Cameron grinned. ‘You’re not the only stubborn one here, sister.’

*

Scarlet hadn’t been expecting this many names on the sign-up sheet; it was a pleasant surprise. She wondered what reasons the sanctimonious Rachel or kind-hearted Hugo or beautiful Angel would have for going to a Murder Club.

She smiled. Whatever reasons they had, she was sure they could be turned to beautiful, beautiful iniquity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for getting all the way down here?
> 
> Please comment below! Even if it's just to state your favourite character so far - (or least favourite?)


	3. The Implications of a Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time, the Murder Club meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! No trigger warnings really for this chapter (wild, I know) - there's a mild argument at the end and fairly clear unrequited love, but other than that nothing at all.

It was a small, circular table, with three legs wrapped around one another instead of a separate four. A small jar of black-and-white mint humbugs rested on it. There was also a small box of peppermint creams and a packet of fig rolls. 

‘Fig rolls?’ Cameron questioned.

‘If you’d prefer a more conventional snack,’ said Scarlet, ‘it is to my belief that Hugo is providing donkey cupcakes.’

‘Donkey cupcakes?’ Rachel questioned. ‘What’s conventional about a donkey cupcake?’ She laughed a little, but nobody laughed with her.

‘It is also to my belief that they are not in any way made of or made to resemble donkeys,’ said Scarlet, ‘but with them comes a custom leaflet about the plight of donkeys in South Africa.’ 

Sophie nodded. ‘Hugo does charity and things,’ she whispered. She seemed extremely nervous. Scarlet’s eyes slid over to her. 

‘Indeed. It would be very charitable of him,’ she added severely, ‘to not be late.’ 

Hugo burst in to catch the last of this, and blushed a little, explaining that he’d been accosted by some Year 7’s asking if he was selling the cupcakes. They did not resemble donkeys. They were sweet, pink-and-white, decorated with mini-marshmallows. Each one rested on a small square donkey leaflet. On the other side of his tray were a box of Capri-Suns.

‘They’re a little childish,’ he said brightly, putting the box down, ‘but you always want something to drink at these things, don’t you?’ 

Unsurprisingly, Angel followed, dressed in a crimson playsuit. His legs were bare and shaved despite the cold January weather. His coffee skin was complimented by the white scarf he had thrown over himself, assumingly to shield him from the cold. He was wearing a pair of wedges with a lot of red ribbon and white lace that looked very expensive. The glitter eyeshadow he wore was symmetrical, and all his nails were tipped with small white diamonds in exactly the same place. The fashion in school was bulky backpacks in which you could fit your books, but he carried an averagely sized white handbag that would barely fit a pencil case.

Rachel scowled.

She had talked to Angel just once. A girl in her class had approached her earlier on in the year in tears, sobbing about her weight, clothes and appearance. She had mentioned how bad it made her feel when she saw beauty in others, had said how awful it made her feel when she saw Angel strutting through the classroom in his short shorts and high heels, makeup done to perfection. Rachel had never spoken to Angel, but understood why he could make one feel self-conscious, and had mentioned it to him.

Angel had replied in a bored tone that he had no power to make other people feel anything.

 _Tell her that her insecurity is her own, and that once she gets rid of it she’ll stop viewing other people as responsible for it_ , he’d said. He hadn’t bothered to look up from his nails. Rachel had resented his selfishness and lack of empathy. This sudden dramatic appearance of his did nothing to ease her opinions on him.

Velvet followed. Her hair was wild and scarlet, and she was not beautiful like Angel, but she was attractive in her own way, in her tight leather clothes and all-black scheme. Her shoes were high, laced boots, platform, with little bat wings at the side. Rachel would never have worn them, but she could see why Velvet turned heads. Many people suspected something between Angel and Velvet, the two curious queer rebels of the school. Rachel didn’t think so. She didn’t think Angel was interested in anyone other than himself and his new boots. 

‘Is everyone now here?’ Scarlet asked stodgily. ‘Thank you,’ she continued, without waiting for a reply. ‘Now. I’m here because murder interests me. Such a broad range of possibilities - such an inspiration for innovation and discovery and creativity, but always with the same, often very profitable consequence.’ 

There was a deadly silence.

‘However, I suspect that none of you have a particular passion for murder.’

‘Well, no,’ said Velvet, breaking the awkwardness. ‘It just sounded kinda wild.’ 

Scarlet nodded seriously. ‘I assume most of you have reasons for being here.’ She took out a white-covered journal. 

‘I shall make notations. So, Angel, why are you here?’

Angel looked slightly dubious about sharing his intentions with the group, but eventually he tossed his hair and spoke. 

‘I figured Murder Club could win the Scariest Award pretty easily later on in the year, which is good, because…’ He sighed a little, but for reasons unknown, chose to share. ‘I want to ruin things for my cousin Tanseem.’

Scarlet nodded thoughtfully, making a note. ‘And this is relevant to ruining her how?’

‘She wants to win all the prizes at the Extracurricular Awards for her little club,’ said Angel, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

‘Damn. That girl should be locked up,’ Cameron commented. Everyone stared at him. He shrugged. ‘What? That’s just the sort of person that ends up in a chase for a-hundred-and-one innocent puppies or the diamond in the rough.’

‘ _I’ve_ been saying that she’s like Cruella de Ville for years,’ Angel said self-righteously.

‘And Velvet is here because it “sounds wild”,’ Scarlet remarked, making faux quotation marks in the air to highlight the colloquial. ‘I see. And Hugo ...’ she stared very seriously at Hugo. ‘You’re here because you like to see Angel happy.’

Hugo’s cheeks coloured and he looked down, but he risked a glance at Angel, who was looking determinedly casual.

‘You can’t just say that, surely?’ asked Rachel, looking quite indignant.

Scarlet looked surprised.

‘Well, it’s clear to everyone, isn’t it? Flushed cheeks, irregular breathing on contact, I’d place money on an accelerated heart rate-‘

Hugo looked extremely alarmed. Angel looked extremely annoyed.

‘Back off,’ he snapped.

Cameron whispered something to Mali. She scoffed.

Scarlet’s eyes travelled almost methodically towards Sophie. ‘And you?’

Sophie looked thunderstruck. ‘I ... um ... I guess ... it just sounded fun.’ 

Scarlet’s expression did not change, but she blinked, faster this time. It was like a doll’s blink; mechanical, like a window snapping closed in the wind.

‘You’re lying,’ she said. Her tone wasn’t accusatory, just sure. The room flinched at the harshness of it.

Sophie looked down. Her face was red. ‘Uh ...’

‘What’s the truth?’ Her tone was unrelenting.'

‘I –I ...’

Scarlet looked at her expectantly. Sophie just looked down, her lip wobbling slightly. 

‘Lay off her!’

Rachel had stood up, face flushed. ‘Leave her alone, you maniac!’ 

Scarlet looked up. Her gestures and movements were normal enough; but everything she did looked terrifying due to the pure impassiveness of her face. ‘I’m asking her a simple enough question.’

‘These things aren’t so simple!’ 

Rachel whirled accusingly round the room. ‘How come you guys aren’t interfering? What’s wrong with the lot of you?’

Hugo looked abashed. The rest did not.

‘Not everyone’s a prefect here, blondie,’ said Velvet.

Angel shrugged. ‘Everyone toughens up eventually.’ His input was highly irritating to Rachel, who snapped at once.

‘Not everyone’s as confident as you!’ 

Scarlet blinked. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Am I _upsetting_ Sophie?’ A delighted pumpkin grin had swallowed her face at the thought.

‘ _Yes_ , Scarlet,’ said Rachel. 'Obviously!'

‘It’s okay,’ Sophie mumbled, scarlet at the attention. 

‘No it’s not,’ said Rachel firmly. ‘No-one has the right to hurt you.’ 

Sophie stared at her, and there was a hint of wonder and awe in her eyes.

‘That’s true enough,’ said Scarlet placidly. ‘Sophie, I apologize. You may tell us when you are comfortable to.’ 

Sophie smiled. ‘Thank you, Scarlet,’ she said, and for the first time she did not look utterly afraid of her. ‘And thank you, Rachel.’

*

‘So, Hugo is here to make Angel happy. Velvet is here to have fun. Angel is here to ruin Tanseem’s hopes, dreams and ambitions. Sophie is here for reasons unknown. Cameron is here so he can play basketball. Mali is here to ensure Cameron’s wellbeing and safety. Rachel is here because she has to be. I am here because I like murder.’ Scarlet closed her notebook. ‘Very well. I think the point of this club should be, instead of focusing entirely on murder, which is my singular goal, to realize all of these ambitions.’

‘So, we help Cameron get his grades up, we deliberately make sure that Tanseem’s club fails – that sort of thing?’ asked Velvet. ‘That sounds cool.’ 

‘We should begin work on Hugo’s,’ said Scarlet firmly. ‘It’s at the top of the list.’

‘If we’re making Angel happy, it should be a surprise for him,’ said Cameron lazily. He took a bite from a cupcake, getting frosting on his lips.

‘Very well,’ said Scarlet, who did not like surprises but knew that there was allegedly an appeal.

‘Maybe we should work on two at a time then, so Angel doesn’t feel out of things,’ Sophie suggested timidly.

Scarlet stared at Sophie. ‘You’re very thoughtful,’ she observed. ‘And kind.’

Sophie flushed.

‘Yeah, well, I think what she said is good,’ said Rachel. ‘What’s the next on the list?’

‘Velvet; to have fun,’ said Scarlet.

‘Well, that’s easy,’ said Mali, in the flat way she had of saying things. ‘Just go somewhere fun.’

'Quite,' said Scarlet boredly. 'I made a group chat. You can discuss what you think is fun on there. Meeting adjourned.' She swept out as a ghost would.

‘There’s a funfair in town,’ mentioned Angel, propping himself up onto the wedges.

‘Romantic,’ said Cameron, wiggling his eyebrows.

‘What’s romantic about a funfair?’ Angel, who was feeling touchy about the topic of romance, snapped.

‘You could ask a date,’ said Velvet flippantly. Hugo looked away. Angel scowled at her.

‘Lay off of me about Hugo!’ he hissed, as the club began to file out of the room. 

Velvet’s lips were pursed. ‘Who said I was talking about Hugo?’

Angel rolled his eyes. ‘Please. He’s not – he’s not like Scotty Parker. I don’t know what to do. He’s not going to grab my arm and make out with me in an empty classroom.’

Velvet blinked. ‘So _that’s_ what happened?’

Angel shook his head in disbelief. ‘ _That’s_ what you took from that?’

‘Well sorry! You never tell me anything!’

‘I’m not obliged to tell you everything!’

Velvet looked back at Hugo, obliviously and angelically stacking the few leftover cupcakes, swore, kicked over a chair and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you! A short one this time - after this, the story really begins.
> 
> Next chapter we're going to the house of the lovely Angel; are we going in with pre-existing opinions? Comment what you think of him below!


	4. A Castle of Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We gain more insight into Angel's home life as it all comes crumbling down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> TW: flashback to a (non-consensual) blowjob, Angel is hit twice (once in flashback, once in real life), family being dicks, homophobia, misogyny, throwing up

Angel very much disliked his house, even when it only contained its permanent residents. Now, it was eight o’clock and the lights were on and he could hear faint music and the sound of chatter. That meant Family was round.

The conundrum that was Family consisted of Tanseem, her father and mother and elder brother Aarav, Angel’s elder sister Riya and elder brothers Hiran and Jayesh. Then there was his elderly grandmother, who was strictly called Grandmother and nothing else, his mother, who he only slightly objected to, and his father, who he did very much. 

Angel’s legal name was Advik. Advik translated to ‘unique.’ When Angel’s father had decided on Advik, Angel assumed he had meant that Angel was going to go to a different university than his brothers. Or perhaps, he would become a doctor instead of a dentist. Had his father been feeling particularly imaginative that day, he might have contemplated that his son might go for something especially adventurous, like a lawyer. He had not banked on a son who wanted to be a fashion designer, despite plenty of warning that Angel had a congenital loveliness throughout his childhood. It was a sore point that nobody ever really brought up.

Angel knew that when Jayesh, Aarav and Hiran had been born, a process which took nearly a day for each, they had wailed in a masculine sort of way and yanked angrily on their mother’s fingers. Angel had been an unusually easy birth, came out with a full head of gorgeous hair and was a very attractive baby once all the purple slime had been washed away. Once he had been returned to his mother he had cooed and wrapped his fist around her thumb, a moment which she used to describe to him as something of a bedtime story. 

‘And I looked at you and those beautiful big eyes, and I said, “goodness me, what a little angel!”’ 

‘He is quite pretty, isn’t he?’ Aunt Prisha had agreed, as Hiran was launched across the room after a swift attack from his two relatives. 

‘He’s a brave one,’ said his mother, who had a tendency to romanticize babies. She preferred their pliancy to her rowdy toddlers. ‘He’s nowhere near as scared as Hiran is, but twice as fragile. Look at him - just watching them fight out of his beautiful eyes.’

‘As are you, thank you very much, sister,’ Prisha had said crossly, going over to sort out the conflict. Prisha was not very loving nor understanding about things like paper cuts or the excruciating pain of childbirth.

‘It’s a load of nonsense anyway. He’s too young to understand,’ Grandmother. ‘Babies don’t get scared.’

‘Say what you like,’ his mother, who had had little patience for her own in her younger years, had snapped. ‘He’s my little angel, aren’t you?’ she cooed.

‘He is a sweet one,’ Prisha agreed. And when the men had overcome their strange phobia of birth – ‘they’re not the ones doing it,’ a six-year-old Riya had remarked to her mother, sucking on her thumb - and crept into the room, she had called ‘Rajesh! Come and look at yours and Samaira’s Angel!’

‘That’s not an Indian name,’ his father had said at once.

‘You can call him what you like,’ his mother had said. ‘He’s my Angel.’

Angel did not strongly object to the name Advik, but he did object to anything his father did, and he didn’t feel like his name should be exempt. So Angel had been the one that had stuck all these years, to the extreme chagrin of his uncle, grandmother and father. From that moment on they had remained in this state around Angel for the remainder of his life.

He had left his keys at home, so he had no choice but to announce his presence and ring the doorbell. It was opened by Riya, smiling gently. Riya was a pretty young woman with toffee skin and a bright, toothpaste-advert smile, with crumbs of mascara that lingered in clumps around the base of her eyelashes and a beauty spot underneath her eye.

‘Those shoes are lovely,’ she said. ‘Did you buy them? No – wait, don’t tell me! Those are my battered old wedges! Goodness me, just look at them!’ Angel smiled. Riya had always been supportive of his fashion projects. He recalled her bravely slipping him her old tote bag to decorate with one of his old t-shirts when she was twelve years old. 

‘Yep,’ he said.

‘You’re getting so good,’ she said softly. ‘It looks like one of those posh designer ones in your catalogues. Where on earth do you get all the materials from?’ 

Angel shrugged. ‘I’m resourceful.’

He was hugged suddenly. ‘You are, Angel. You’re just as talented as Hiran and Jayesh.’ She lowered her voice. ‘No matter what Daddy says. And I do think that they’re lovely, but he’s going to have quite a lot to say about your shoes. I think you should go upstairs and change –‘

‘If he can go out to school in them, he can go to family,’ his grandmother croaked from the corner. Angel glared. Grandmother was a sardonic, vituperative old woman with a hair protruding from a mole on her chin and a face wrinkled and brown as a walnut. She had a habit of emerging from the shadows in a burst of prejudice to criticize either Angel, politicians or the simple matter of life in general. This was then in turn met by fierce rebellion from Angel and gentle admonishment from Riya. It was a tedious and upsetting cycle and Angel wished dearly for the day that Grandmother would be dead.

‘Good God, I’m glad my eyesight is going,’ she said. ‘Is this Advik, or Adna? Which one of you is Riya? Oh, that one is – she’s the one doing something with her life.’ She cackled and then glared. 

‘You’d think a bitter old woman with no hobby other than criticizing her grandchildren would talk a lot less about productivity,’ Angel snapped.

Grandmother swelled like a bullfrog. Luckily the ensuing rant was interrupted by Riya.

‘Grandmother,’ said Riya gently, ‘Angel’s just come home from school.’

‘School finishes seven o’clock now, does it? Tanseem’s here. He doesn’t even have to walk home. Not like I did. I’ll tell you, boy – or so you’re trying to convince me -‘

‘Yes, yes, grandmother,’ Riya said soothingly. ‘Angel can talk when he’s gone upstairs and got changed into something more comfortable.’ 

Angel was half convinced to turn up in something even more flamboyant, but reluctantly placed on an old beige jumper and a pair of pale blue jeans. It would normally have been a downgrade, but Angel miraculously suited this most drab of outfits. The beige brought out the gold in his eyes. 

You never knew when someone important was going to come along.

At his return, his father scowled. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘I went to Hugo’s.’ 

That much was true. Angel and Velvet both loved going to Hugo’s. Their house was a luxurious manor house on one of the beautiful roads with houses that belonged on Pinterest boards. It was big and spacious, and even more so because they barely ever had visitors. The entire house always smelt of vanilla scented candles, and the food there was always delicious - Arianne, Hugo’s mother, was a fantastic cook. She looked younger than her age, which was young anyway, and wore short dungarees and usually had paint in her hair, because she was an artist. She was a fantastic one, so Velvet and Arianne would sit there and paint while Hugo baked or printed off flyers or drafted his petitions, and sometimes Angel would sketch some new designs. Arianne didn’t mind. She was the only adult he could recall believing in his fashion career. 

He did not attempt an explanation of any of this to Family.

Aarav shook his head. ‘I bet he was with girls.’

‘Him?’ muttered Jayesh. 

‘He’s good-looking enough, he’s just an idiot. It’s not like most girls could tell,’ said Aarav. Angel had thoughts of calling Aarav shallow or misogynistic – amongst other things – but resisted the urge.

‘You’re spending a lot of time with Hugo,’ his mother said sternly. ‘I want his mother’s number. We need to make sure that they’re the right sort of family.’ 

Angel sighed. He loved his mother, but she could be just as traditional as the rest of his family at times. He wondered what she’d have to say about Arianne’s short paint-splattered dungarees.

‘Who is this boy?’ asked Uncle Sahil. ‘It’s like your mother said. Wrong type of family, wrong type of friends – you know, at Angel’s age, friends are influential. You end up drinking, in prison, dead sometimes. You all -are you listening? Aarav, Jayesh? It’s important.’ There were murmurs of agreement all round. ‘This Hugo. Where does he live?’

‘Pine Lane.’

‘Pine Lane!’ Aunt Prisha echoed. ‘That’s where those big houses are, Sahil. The one we drive down going to the shopping centre.’ 

‘Huh. What’s his father? A banker?’

‘He doesn’t live with his father.’ 

‘Ha! Single mother, eh?’ his Grandmother chimed in victoriously. ‘Hmm. Bet she’s living off the child support!’ 

‘He doesn’t pay child support. His mother earns the money,’ Angel snapped. 

‘Hmm, what does she do? Modelling?’ 

‘So his father’s a banker but his mother must be a model?’ Angel asked incredulously. His uncle continued staring, clearly expecting an answer, so he relented. ‘No. She’s an artist.’

‘An artist!’ said his mother. 'What does she paint?'

'It sounds interesting,' Riya attempted. Riya did not see the point in art, but his mother loved galleries. His father rolled his eyes.

‘That’s where he’s getting his silly ideas,’ Grandmother declared. ‘You should forbid him from seeing this boy, Rajesh.’

His mother suddenly winced as if experiencing a particularly troubling memory. ‘Oh, is she ... is she the blonde woman? The one I met at Parents Evening?’ his mother asked delicately. 

‘Blonde,’ said Hiran smugly, as if this settled everything.

‘She’s the one from Parents Evening,’ Angel clarified.

‘Oh ... the nice one,’ said his mother, but her brow was slightly crumpled. Arianne had been spectacularly nice, but she had been wearing a denim mini-skirt and quite a low-cut pink blouse that had horrified Angel’s mother.

‘She’s a _mother_?’ she had hissed, as they walked away. ‘Not his sister?’

‘Well Hugo’s nice,’ said Tanseem importantly. Angel rolled his eyes. He’d been wondering when the great and glorified Tanseem would put forward her opinion, but this seemed remarkably pleasant for her.

Tanseem met his eyes and smiled innocently. 

‘Not like your other friend.’ 

Angel felt a flash of fury. ‘You don’t speak to my friends. I doubt you’d know.’

‘The one with all the piercings. A boy or a girl?’ Tanseem said softly, her voice low and mocking.

‘She has one lip piercing.’ Velvet’s lip piercing was in fact a fake one from Clare’s, but Angel had been sworn to secrecy. ‘And you know perfectly well what gender she is.’

‘I don’t think she does.’

‘Who gave you the _right_ -‘ Angel began, but he was interrupted.

‘That’s enough, Advik. I don’t want you talking to those people anymore. They’re clearly a bad influence. What about your other friends? Aarav, your friend Jonathan has a brother in Angel’s class, doesn’t he?’ 

‘Scotty. He’s in Angel’s year,’ said Aarav.

‘I don’t like him, and besides, you won’t approve of Scotty.’

Aarav raised his eyebrows. ‘Hmm, I agree with Advik here, Father. Scotty is ... attracted to men. Of course, times are changing,’ he added carelessly. ‘Up in university I’m exposed to all sorts of people. But I’m not sure that you could maintain a friendship with one.’ He spoke as if he was some sort of progressive icon.

Angel kept his mouth shut as the room burst into a bout of indignant lectures. He would have argued that it was perfectly plausible to maintain a friendship with someone gay and that Scotty was not in the least attracted to him, but he doubted that he’d be able to make it convincing after their past together. Not to mention that he hardly wanted to convince them that Scotty was a good friend for him. He doubted that they’d listen to him, but if they _did_ ending up forcing him to talk to Scotty Parker-

_Angel remembered warm bulbous pulsing skin in his throat and hot liquid pleasure in his hair …_

‘Anyway, I don’t see why he can’t be friends with this Hugo, Rajesh.’ Angel sighed in relief. ‘Even Tanseem said he was a nice boy.’ 

‘You didn’t seem to think much of his mother,’ said his Grandmother, with an air of superiority.

‘Well, she’s a ... a modern woman,’ said his mother. ‘But you know. Angel’s living in a modern world. And she was very nice, Mother, very nice indeed.’ 

‘Modern!’ said Grandmother. ‘That’s a nice way of saying slut!’ 

‘Mother,’ said his mother, in a very horrified voice, ‘that’s quite enough.’ 

‘You would have thought you were the mother,’ said Grandmother dangerously. His mother looked down and busied herself making some more drinks.

‘Well - the boy is nice, Tanseem?’ his father said thoughtfully.

‘Well, I’ve never met his mother,’ Tanseem smirked.

Angel ached to slap her. 

‘But yes. Hugo seems alright,’ said Tanseem. ‘I mean ... he’s a little strange ...’ 

‘Strange?’ his father said. Strange was possibly the worst word she could use, Angel thought in bitter frustration. Of course. Tanseem knew what she was doing. 

‘Well, perhaps because he only lives with women,’ said Tanseem. ‘He’s quite ... feminine. I think you met him, mother. The one talking about saving the pandas. He gave you one of the little panda face cupcakes.’ 

Angel wished, not for the first time, for Tanseem to die a prolonged and agonizing death.

‘Oh!’ said Prisha. ‘Oh, well he’s good in the kitchen, I’ll say that for him.’

His mother nodded in agreement.

‘Good in the kitchen!’ said Jayesh. Hiran started laughing. 

‘Well that’s not a bad quality in a man,’ said his mother, setting drinks on the table. 

‘Hmmm,’ said Aunt Prisha. The look she gave her husband went unnoticed.

‘See, that’s where he gets all these stupid ideas from,’ Grandmother reiterated. ‘You should have seen how he was dressed when he came in, Rajesh.’ 

‘Well everyone’s modern today,’ said Uncle Sahil, who clearly thought he was being particularly liberal. ‘Tanseem, she wears those tight leggings. Shorts, sometimes.’ 

‘Revolutionary,’ said Angel dryly. 

‘Ha,’ said Grandmother. ‘He was wearing less cloth than Tanseem is. He was dressed like a girl, and a modern one at that, if we’re using my daughter’s phrasing.’ She snorted.

‘It was quite inappropriate,’ agreed Tanseem. ‘A couple of days ago, at school, he was _covered_ in makeup, Uncle Rajesh.’ 

Hiran was laughing harder. 

_He choked and pulled himself off. Scotty grabbed at his hair..._

'I mean, _I_ wouldn't even dress in that way...'

_'Stop!'_

Angel could feel nausea building in his throat. He spat out his mouthful into the tissue.

_'Come on, you're doing great...'_

'Hey, what's that you're doing? It's rude to your mother.'

_'I don't want to!'_

'That's the problem. No respect.'

_'Shut up, for fuck's sake ... you'll be fine!'_

He could feel bile dragging itself up. His eyes were pricking and hot.

_'I can't breathe!'_

'Hey. Don't ignore me!'

_'Sorry, baby. I thought you'd learn quicker. We can try again.' His voice was mocking and cruel..._

'I'm not,' he managed. 'I don't feel well.'

_'Just leave me alone...'_

'Don't be silly. You can't just pretend to be ill because we're talking to you. Angel! Angel!'

_It was down his throat again. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe …_

‘It’s a modern world,’ put in Riya placidly, ‘just like Mother said. And Hugo _is_ nice, Daddy.’

_He choked on it again as Scotty yanked it out and didn't comment as it all fell down his face and hair. He was just grateful to breathe._

His father grunted. Riya had always been the favourite. Some of his earliest memories were from being around the dinner table hearing his father talk about Riya.

‘Straight A’s!’ he’d crow. ‘Had she been a boy, I’d have passed the family business onto her!’

Apparently her approving judgement was acceptable enough for him to reconsider. He sighed and relented.

‘Well, you call up his mother, Samaira,’ he said. ‘But you’re to dress decently, boy.’ 

Someone changed the subject.

'Bathroom,' Angel mumbled as he left. Riya heard him.

_He hit him hard before he went. 'Mind your fucking teeth...'_

Angel was sick.

*

Arianne was still painting. Hugo had gone to bed, tired, and she was worried about him. However irrational it was, she was worried that he didn’t love her; no matter how happy her son seemed, her own past ate at her.

Perhaps he’s unhappy as you were.

Arianne knew that she loved her son, but from her own experience, she also knew that love was not enough. Arianne’s father had loved her, but he was a terrible parent and terrible man. It was his love that had motivated him to nag at her – about her clothes, her work, her ambition of being an artist (which he had never respected) – but in reality all it had done was driven her away. When she became pregnant with Hugo it had been the end. He had yelled and Arianne had yelled back; and finally she decided that she didn’t want the embittered, prejudiced, grumpy old man living with her son, and had walked out the house.

Arianne knew that he was sure that she’d come back, that her feeble savings would eventually give away and she’d need a place to stay. There had been a niggling doubt in Arianne’s mind that that would happen too. But, after a year of food stamps and savings and charity shop baby clothes, one of her pieces had sold- for a large amount of money, but more importantly, to a high-profile collector. Arianne went from being in what was essentially relative poverty to a comfortably wealthy woman within eight months; and her career had only soared from there – and so had Arianne.

She bought better quality clothes and could afford better quality food, and go to clubs and work less and spend more time with her child. When pregnant with Hugo she had given up smoking and drinking and ate healthily as she could (if only to prove that she could be responsible) and had learnt a lot about sensibility through dull sensible things like bills and taxes. Her father had given her many hints as to what not to do, particularly with an older child, so her relationship only grew.

But even with all the right signs and a seemingly happy, healthy child and the dozens of parenting books she had bought over the years, she was scared. 

She thought that maybe meeting her father, talking to him, would provide her with some closure. Her father was not a thing of change – which, she thought, was a large part of the problem – and she was sure that if she were to knock on her old front door, that paint-peeling brown-burgundy relic of her past, it would be her father who answered it.

But if Arianne had a flaw, it was that she held a grudge, and now she was leashed to a parenthood of tentativeness, of double-checking, of anxiety and of fear, whatever its rewards.

Arianne put down the paintbrush and went to bed.

*

Saturdays were sleep-in days. It appeared that Angel’s family had no respect for this.

‘I thought you two went back to college,’ he mumbled, as his curtains were thrust open in a violently appreciative fashion. Aarav and Hiran were both studying, Aarav in his third year and Hiran in his first. Jayesh was still in sixth form.

‘It’s only half an hour away. And Dad says we all need more discipline. So we’re staying at home for a bit.’

‘Touch my clothes, I dare you.’ 

‘There’s three of us and you don’t even count as one,’ said Hiran. ‘Now shut up and just do it.’

‘He’ll give you money for new ones,’ Jayesh offered. He said one hundred pounds.’

‘One hundred pounds won’t replace some of my shoes!’

‘You sound like my girlfriend,’ said Aarav. He opened the wardrobe. ‘Why in hell do you have so many clothes? Wait, are these skirts?’

‘Yes,’ said Angel, ‘extremely expensive designer skirts. Get off of my clothes!’

He jumped out of bed remarkably quickly for a sleep-in day.

Aarav held up one of his skirts like it might contaminate him. Hiran and Jayesh were shaking with laughter. He tossed it to the floor, crumpling one of the delicate lace ruffles.  
‘What’s this?’ Angel suddenly felt his heart beating in his stomach. A few months ago he’d started sewing that dress. It was one of his most elaborate designs and certainly the most intricate thing he’d ever attempted to sew. He’d finished it just last week and had spent hours since simply staring at his most wonderful creation. Aarav was eyeing the bin bag beadily.

‘Put that down,’ Angel said quietly. He wasn’t going to say he made it; he wasn’t that suicidal. He’d been stupid enough to say he was interested in fashion when he was thirteen.  
He had not made the mistake again. But as of now he’d consider anything.

Hiran held out a bin bag.

‘Put it down!’

It was Aarav that knocked him down. His hand was like steel.

‘Shut up,’ he said bluntly. He bundled the dress in.

‘You’ll tear it!’ 

‘I’m throwing it in the bin, why does that even matter?’

‘No you’re not because they’re my clothes!’

Hiran mocked him in a high feminine voice and threw in the skirt. Angel darted towards the bag, and was met with a strong hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.

‘It’s not like they’re important,’ Jayesh said impatiently. ‘You’ll get new clothes.’

‘I don’t want new clothes! Get off my things!’

‘Stop having your stupid temper tantrum or I’ll tell Father.’

‘Tell him what you like, just leave my clothes alone!’ 

‘For the love of God, take him out, Hiran,’ snapped Jayesh. ‘Take him downstairs and tell Mother.’

Hiran grasped his arm. Angel struggled, but he was weary from sleep and Hiran was a boxer. He laughed mockingly and pulled him over his shoulder.

‘You’re so light,’ he marvelled. ‘I think you inherited mother’s body,’ he added with a sneer, to the laughter of Jayesh and Aarav. ‘Just pack away all the clothes he shouldn’t be wearing.’ 

‘You mean all of them?’ Jayesh said, holding up a pink lace crop top. ‘Angel, come on. You must know that this isn’t appropriate.’

Angel’s eyes burned with tears and fire. 

‘Not all of them,’ said Aarav, who clearly thought he was being fair. ‘Last night he was attired quite suitably.’

‘Stop talking like that to make yourself sound smart and put down my clothes!’ Angel was aware that he was now screeching and probably looked like a child, but he didn’t care. His clothes were important to him. They were more than just his fabric. They were his rebellion against his teachers and his family and society. They were his red spotted skin of the ladybird, his lion’s mane; he could paint lipstick over the cracks in his soul and smile, and be beautiful Angel, strong Angel, fearless Angel. They were his pretence, his smoke screen.

Only he knew what a pathetic creature he’d be if that ever came tumbling down. 

A castle of cards, stacked up in a perfect pyramid, when the base was removed. His card castle was about to cave in and fall to the floor in fragments of hearts and diamonds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for getting all the way down here! Please comment below any thoughts on the chapter!


	5. An Angel's Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of last chapter drive two characters closer, and others further apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this is late! Yesterday was super hectic and then Windows started updating when I turned on my laptop. 
> 
> Regardless, hope you enjoy. 
> 
> TW: a lot of (dark) talk about death, insecurity, bitchy customers, a (fairly mild/implied) transphobic comment, unrequited crush/love, (vv short) flashback to emotional and physical abuse, a (very quick) kiss

It is funny, how the world can be ending in some places, and in others, it is the picture of peace – and how easily they can collide.

Number 15, Pine Lane, was currently in a state of tranquillity, for however long compassion allowed them. 

‘I like that one. The one of the bridge,’ said Hugo thoughtfully. His mother looked over her shoulder and smiled a rarely sweet smile. She wasn’t like him, gentle in her way, but bold and funny and fierce. Her smiles, like the rest of her, were generally bolder, brighter, bigger, so softer, kinder smiles were always something to treasure - not because he didn’t appreciate the other ones, but because when she smiled like that, he saw some of his own gentleness there. He often wondered how he had such vicarious friends and family and remained calm, bland, plodding Hugo. 

‘I won’t sell this one then. You can have it in your room,’ she said. ‘It’s good to do things for happiness, Hugo, and the happiness of people around you,’ she said, as soon as it became clear that he was about to open his mouth to protest. ‘When I started up painting for money, it was almost a chore. Now that work is worth it, because I don’t have to view what I love simply as work anymore.’

Perhaps having such a wise mother was the reason he lacked an argumentative nature. There was precious little to argue on in his house. 

‘I think my cupcakes should be done,’ he said, rising. 

‘Bring one in for me, will you?’

‘Of course.’ 

Hugo was always glad that there were no fathers, no brothers, no nosy neighbours, no friends, no boarders, no people, no problems in his home. He liked to have his mother to himself. He knew that sounded overly possessive, selfish, even, but he just enjoyed it; the love and rhythm and consistency of things when it was just them in the house. Angel, of course, was the one exception to the rule; he always fitted so comfortably into their routine, somehow managing not to be a disturbance but an asset when he was there. Velvet, too, was a nice addition to their home, but it was different with Angel, as all things were. Velvet he loved the company of, but Hugo felt incomplete when Angel was gone. There was a slight nagging feeling in his stomach, now, that Angel had not called or texted. He checked Angel’s social media; they were usually active.

He hadn’t posted anything.

Maybe Family was round. 

But they were always round. He had never been so silent before.

It was silly to worry that they hadn’t contacted in a couple of hours, he knew, but he couldn’t swallow it, that persistent, constant feeling that something was wrong.

Once he had returned with some of his cupcakes, he vocalized this to his mother, who frowned but suggested that he called once and left it at that. ‘If he could and wanted to, he would have contacted you,’ she said. Hugo worriedly accepted the advice; he supposed Angel would have, but he had never _not wanted_ to talk to Hugo before.

Hugo had accepted her advice but hadn’t even been able to enjoy his cupcake, staring anxiously at his phone as if willing it to ring. When it finally did, it both shocked him and made his heart jump; he grasped the vibrating phone in trembling hands and accepted the call.

‘Angel – Angel, are you okay?’

‘Hugo – oh God, Hugo, _my clothes_ –‘ Angel had never sounded like that before, like a wild animal that had had something taken from it; wounded and despairing and furious. But most of all he had sounded broken. Despite the prevailing opinion, Angel was not indestructible. The world viewed confident people like stone, rock, marble, and threw things at them accordingly. If anything, Angel was a glass sculpture; something striking and admired and tirelessly beautiful, but fragile despite the respect it commanded. He had always feared the possibility of Angel becoming too unsteady to stay upright any longer and hitting the floor with a crash. Glass edges were cruel and sharp and, though they had their beauty to them, weren’t whole. 

‘Your – your clothes?’

‘Yes.’ Angel’s voice was wobbly, shaking, his words snatched away by his breath. He sounded panicky. Hugo had witnessed Angel’s panic attacks before. They were rare, but not pretty. He bit his lip.

‘Where are you? My mum would pick you up ... you could come to mine and calm down.’

‘I was at my house. I’m walking to yours.’

‘Walking?’ Hugo tried to bury his own, roaring panic. ‘It’s a long way, Angel.’

‘I – I need a walk. It’ll clear my head.’

‘It’s raining, Angel. Please let us come and pick you up. You’ll be soaked through.’

Angel sniffed. ‘’Kay,’ he finally agreed, sounding too utterly compliant to be Hugo’s Angel. He felt a surge of uncharacteristic fury, and was glad of it. He had an approved appreciation of his other friends and a steady love for his mother, but it had always been Angel that was able to ignite these sorts of raw emotions in him.

‘He’s out? In this weather? He’ll catch his death. Tell him we’re on our way,’ his mother commanded. 

‘Where are you?’

‘Whitehouse Avenue.’ Angel’s tone was high, almost a whine, and on the brink of nonsense. 

‘Just wait there. We’re coming.’ 

*

Angel’s hands were shaking. He desperately wanted to drink the hot chocolate Angel’s mother had offered to him, but he was sure he would spill it all over her cream carpet. He remembered once when he was six, he'd spilt an orange juice and was hit by his father. It was an old memory that he told himself shouldn't still be upsetting - it wasn't a hard smack, he didn't hit him frequently, after all - but the thought brought forth more tears. Hugo seemed to have noticed his predicament and was eyeing him worriedly. 

‘Angel, dear, what happened?’ Arianne asked softly. ‘If you’d be more comfortable with just Hugo, I can leave.’

‘Just- just Hugo, please.’ He would have felt awkward asking this of another adult, but Arianne had never been like that. She smiled in an understanding way and checked that it was okay for her to bring in some cookies a little later on, to which Angel acquiesced.

‘I – I ... my clothes. They threw them all out. All of them. And some of my makeup, too.’ 

‘Who? Your brothers?’ Hugo asked.

Angel nodded. ‘And Aarav.’ 

Hugo felt like his stomach had been gripped and twisted by a cold, strong hand. He always winced at the slightest criticism of Angel, knowing the boy’s brittleness better than most, and this was more than slight criticism. He couldn’t imagine someone storming into his room and throwing away his possessions, and his clothes mattered a lot less to him than Angel’s did.

And he looked so – _young_. He supposed he just looked a bit more his age and less like a model, but even Hugo was somewhat used to viewing Angel as a separate, older and inherently glamorous entity. Hugo felt the urge to protect Angel even more in the state he was in. Without his makeup his freckles stood out more, and the very image of them marching along that button nose would have made anyone look childlike. As it stood, Angel’s hair was wet and curled by the rain, and he had changed out of his soaked clothes into Hugo’s much gentler wardrobe. He was now hunched over in a cream knitted jumper that was too big for him, due to his small stature – which one never really noticed when he was kitted out in his heels - and his eyes were big and brown and rimmed with red. His lips were quivering, his face streaked with tears and rain.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s a stupid thing to cry about.’

‘No it’s not!’ He was surprised by the vehemence in his own voice, but he kept on going. ‘Don’t you dare say it’s stupid. You spent money on them. You made them. And they’re yours. Of course you’re upset.’ 

Angel smiled softly, and Hugo thought that if he smiled like that again then he would give him the world.

‘Thank you.’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘You cared. And you made my feelings ... you made them feel validated. Thank you.’ 

Hugo didn’t know how he should reply, so instead he just whispered the one thing he was sure of. ‘Your feelings are always validated.’ He noticed Angel’s still-shaking hands. ‘You want help?’ 

Angel smiled again. It was shakier and wobblier than before, and nowhere near as earnest, but it was the usual Angel smile, like he’d started to piece back together. 

‘Please.’ His voice was precarious as the smile had been, but there was none of the quondam bravado in it. His voice was breathy and pithy and Hugo longed to cuddle him, but he thought that Angel might resent it.

So instead he thought of all the things he had decided that he would never ever do, and how many would be left if Angel murmured please like he had just then again.

*

Angel was asleep.

Hugo had clasped his hands over Angel’s as he held the cup, managing to find the strength to hold the spasms still and guide the cup to his lips. Once he’d finished the drink he’d lent his head against Hugo’s chest, and eventually, mumbling incoherencies that Hugo strained to understand, he had closed his eyes and it became very apparent that he was not opening them any time soon. Hugo would have felt awful about waking him, so he shifted him softly onto a pillow and quietly left.

Now that he thought about it, the intimacy of it caused him to flush. At the time it had been natural as life, as breathing.

Angel still had that overwhelming vulnerability about him, asleep, those long lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones. Angel’s eyelashes were mastered tools. Normally, he fluttered them this way and that, like particularly beautiful wings of a butterfly, Hugo had always thought. These flutters were carefully controlled actions that Angel had always made look seductive and coaxing and all too purposeful, so it was odd to see them like this, demurely lying still on his cheeks - but then, he didn’t know why he had expected Angel’s usual boldness to be there. So far, the overall sweetness of an upset Angel had winded Hugo like a blow to the stomach. On one hand, it was adorably endearing, and there was a need there, to succour and comfort Angel, that he rarely felt. On the other, he longed for Angel to be whole and strong again. His mother had once told him that if Hugo was a steady Bunsen flame, then Angel was a candle soaked in oil, blazing bright and fierce, if such a candle could burn forever. Now he wondered if that was possible.

Someone had blown Angel’s candle out. But Hugo was determined to coax him back to at least a semblance of his former flames.

*

Velvet shoved the two lattes across the counter. Her new job was easy enough, but it had the unfortunate side effect of dealing with unpleasant couples such as these. They were already driving Velvet mad.

‘I asked for no foam,’ the woman said nastily. Her husband glared at Velvet as if she had poisoned his wife. 

Velvet resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She had kept this job for three months, which probably meant that it was soon going to end. She was very tempted to end it now, but if there was one vow to herself that she was going to stick to, it was that her job was not going to end over an old white couple with a £80,000 car complaining about a few bubbles in someone’s coffee. 

‘I’ll make you a new one, ma’am.’ 

‘What are you then? A ma’am or a sir?’ Velvet would have found it easier to keep quiet if it had been simple curiosity in the woman’s voice, but she could hear the malice there. She bit down on her tongue, harder than she had meant to, but she was somewhat glad for the aching sting and the copper taste. It gave her something to focus on. 

‘Back in my day you wouldn’t be hired with that hair,’ her husband commented.

‘I’m sure that back in your day, you _had_ hair,’ said Velvet, through gritted teeth.

She winced at herself as soon as it escaped.

‘ _Excuse_ me?’ The woman placed the latte on the counter so hard that it spilt. ‘Manager? Manager!’ Velvet winced again - the woman’s shrill voice gave her a headache, but luckily, she was cut short by the ringtone of Velvet’s phone.

It was the ‘Make Angel Happy’ group chat. They’d been miraculously uninspired so far. Angel was remarkably satisfied in most areas of his life, if you discounted family, but that was far too big and personal for them to tackle. Velvet had wished she could think of some sort of heroic gesture, one that might make Angel see her.

_‘Who said I was talking about Hugo?’_

_‘Please.’_

Velvet had never seen herself as an invisible prospect, just an undesirable one. It had taken far too long to dawn on her that to Angel, she nothing more than a secondary friend.

Of course it was Hugo that had put something on the chat. Hugo was thoughtful and sensitive and creative. Bitterness twisted Velvet’s insides. All the reasons that she had befriended Hugo were beginning to turn into reasons to hate him; she knew that the foundation of her feelings was simply jealousy, but that didn’t help in controlling them. She adored Angel and Hugo and their friendship more than anything. It hurt that her own selfishness threatened to break them all apart.

She didn’t know why it had taken so long to realize that Angel didn’t recognize her feelings with the way he looked at Hugo. Sweet Hugo, with his curling blonde hair and soft blue eyes, ever the archangel; Velvet longed to wear soft jumpers and like high tea and coffee and have a good relationship with her mother, but change herself for a guy she would not. 

Long desperately for his attention, sadly, she had no control over.

Dismissing her thoughts to finish the coffee as the man honked indignantly about insults to his appearance to her manager, she quickly scanned the text message Hugo had sent.

_I’ve got a good idea to make Angel happy, but we need to activate it NOW._

*

‘I can’t believe I waded through a skip,’ said Cameron.

‘Don’t fuss,’ said Mali. They were in Hugo’s mother’s storeroom, surrounded by piles of plastic bin bags, each one containing clothes upon clothes upon clothes.

‘So what’s our plan of action?’ Scarlet asked simply. 

Sophie blinked. ‘I thought it was just to get the clothes back.’

‘Surely,’ said Scarlet, ‘that is unhealthy.’

‘I don’t follow you,’ said Cameron, after a beat of caution. 

‘Angel’s right to his possessions, his control of his outward appearance and his privacy, are not privileges but entitlements,’ said Scarlet. ‘If we begin to insinuate that entitlements are things to be joyful about, then we ingrain the mindset that an entitlement is a thing of privilege instead of a thing of normalcy.’ 

‘There are people that don’t have those entitlements,’ said Velvet coolly.

‘And they are, for the most part, sadder than we,’ said Scarlet. ‘That doesn’t mean that we have to be happy. Having an entitlement that most are denied is not a reason for joy. Not having an entitlement is a reason to be sad. The poor state of our world’s affairs has skewed your standards.’ She waited a short while for any further contradictions. There were none. ‘Where do we proceed from here?’

Velvet did not take offence. There was not much use, with Scarlet, and she was usually right.

‘Angel wants a career in fashion,’ said Hugo softly. ‘Maybe we could put on a fashion show of the clothes he makes? Invite some designers – some managers of some clothes chains –‘

‘How do we manage to get them to _come_?’ asked Velvet, more sharply than she had intended to sound.

She winced at herself.

‘I’m good at petitioning,’ said Hugo mildly. Most people would have been riled up by her poisonous tone, but he managed to avoid sounding argumentative whatsoever, if anything subtly satirical. ‘And my mother’s got good connections in that sort of industry. We can do all sorts.’ 

‘I’ve got a Saturday job at a clothes shop,’ said Mali. ‘It’s hardly much, but my manager would take my input. I’m a good worker. I could ask him to come.’ 

Sophie looked terribly anxious, but finally whispered, ‘I write anonymously for the school paper. I’d be pleased to do an article.’

‘And we could get other papers to do articles too,’ said Cameron. ‘There’s lots of stuff to talk about, right? Young talent – breaking gender boundaries-‘ 

‘Is Angel any good at clothes making?’ Scarlet interrupted. ‘I understand it’s a hobby, but does he have any talent?’

In response, Hugo drew out The Dress. Angel had sent him a picture of it and that had been admirable in itself, but it appeared much more impressive in real life. Seeing it now he thought he might melt into the fabric. 

Sophie let out a soft gasp. ‘It’s _beautiful_ ,’ she said longingly. Cameron glanced at her. 

‘Did he sew that?’ Rachel asked, with a mixture of incredulity and admiration. She had never been any good at Textiles when they had to do it.

‘Yeah,’ said Hugo softly.

‘Is it still going to be a surprise?’ said Mali. ‘This is his career opportunity. I think he should plan it.’

‘The thought is the surprise,’ said Scarlet, in her usual way of quelling argument simply through her own surety. ‘We will be helping him by doing all the menial tasks; raising money for and booking the venue, petitioning and pestering potential employers, hiring models and whatnot, while he concentrates on the running of the show and the clothing.’ 

‘Are we going to go downstairs?’ Velvet asked.

‘I’ll ... I’ll go get Angel,’ said Hugo quickly. He doubted Angel would like being seen by the others as he was, ethereal and sleeping in one of Hugo’s old jumpers, and then reminded himself that Angel would not appreciate being called childlike or cute, even by him. He had predicted right; when he woke him, Angel’s embarrassment spilt red over his cheekbones, a sight that tugged at Hugo’s heart despite his philosophy.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘For falling asleep.’

Hugo smiled. ‘It’s fine.’

‘What happened?’

‘Aarav and your brothers-‘

‘I remember that part, and coming to your house. After that ...’ he flushed again and looked away. ‘I just remember warmth. And hot chocolate.’ 

‘You ... you drank it. I mean, I helped you drink it.’

‘You helped me?’

‘Your hands. They were shaking.’

Angel was silent. Then, he said stiffly, ‘oh.’

‘And then you fell asleep.’

‘Just onto the sofa?’ Angel was mortified at the mere thought, but he was pretty sure that he knew the answer to that question. He distinctly remembered curling golden hair and a sweet gentle voice in his ear, and a blur of fluffy cream jumpers so that he didn’t know where his one ended and the other began.

He wondered what it would be like to live a life of cocoa and fluffiness and Hugo.

‘You fell asleep. On ... on me.’ The last part came out as a squeak. Hugo hadn’t meant for it to do that.

‘Oh God. I’m so sorry ... I was so upset. I didn’t – I didn’t mean for it to mean anything.’

‘Nothing at all?’ Hugo whispered.

Angel stared up at him. He and Velvet had a habit of seeing Hugo as the human concept of celibacy. It was odd to have to think that Hugo might understand romantic intention. But there was too much understanding in his tone to go down any other route; and, Angel noted with a pounding heart, too much hurt for it to be entirely unrequited-

‘What do you want it to mean?’ he said at last.

Hugo’s cheeks were red. ‘Can you say it?’

‘I don’t know what to say!’ Angel snapped, his cheeks still pink.

Hugo tilted his head. ‘How come?’

‘It’s just I don’t know if I’m thinking what you’re thinking, and if you’re not thinking what I’m thinking-‘

‘Trust me,’ Hugo’s mother piped up from the doorway, ‘he’s thinking what you’re thinking.' She was standing there guiltily with a tray of cookies. 'Where are your friends? Also-'

Hugo’s cheeks, if possible, coloured even more. ‘ _Mum_!’ 

‘I'll just leave you two to it. Here, you can take the cookies up yourselves.' She put the cookies down and then backed out, blonde braids swaying and pink paint splattered down her left calf.

Angel looked away. He was tear-stained, bare-faced and bleary-eyed; wearing Hugo’s too big jeans with his hair ruffled from rain and sleep. He could not think of a time since Year 7 in which he had looked less attractive. This was not the romantic moment he’d dreamed about, but it had come, so it would have to do.

‘Um ... I guess – I really value you as a friend, and if that’s the way you want it, then I’ll still really value you as a friend, because you’re the best. But – but if you’re willing ...’

Hugo looked up through his lashes. They were black, oddly dark against the grey-blue of his eyes, but stunningly. 

‘If you want to be – be boyfriends.’ 

‘Boyfriends?’ Hugo’s voice was high.

‘If you don’t want to be,’ Angel said quickly, though panic had already risen in his chest, ‘that’s fine, honest-‘ 

‘I didn’t think you would want to be,’ said Hugo softly. ‘You’re all – shiny and attractive and embellished and confident and ... inappropriate.’ 

_'You've got to put up with me.' His voice was furious, hand clamped around Angel's wrist, a vice of flesh. 'As if anyone will have you after me... because I've ruined you, spoilt you, broken you. You're nothing to anyone wanting something now.'_

Angel's eyes closed for a moment in horrific understanding. ‘And – and you’re looking for someone – different? Someone more ...’

‘No! No, I’m looking – I mean, for some time now, I’ve just been looking for _you_.' Hugo swallowed. 'I thought it was hopeless. I thought I was too childish and too boring for you.’

‘I thought I was too ... too _wrong_ for you. Too experienced, too rebellious ...’ 

_Too ruined, spoilt, broken._

‘You’ve just got a lot to rebel against,’ Hugo whispered. 

Angel lent against Hugo like he had done last night. ‘Can we have a lazy day? Just the two of us?’ 

Hugo looked regretful. ‘No. Everyone’s upstairs waiting for you. And we’ve got something to show you, and something bigger to tell you.’

Angel blinked. ‘Who’s everyone?’

‘Scarlet, Sophie, Rachel, Velvet, Mali, Cameron ...’

Angel looked panicked as he stared down at himself, the big jumper and the baggy jeans. ‘They’re here?’

‘I tried to find something that you might wear ...’ It was a gauzy shoulderless top and a pair of denim shorts. ‘You’ve left some stuff here before. They’re quite old, I know it’s not what you might like-‘

He was caught unaware by a sudden hug. ‘Thank you – thank you so much, Hugo.’ 

Hugo nodded. And then they both sank into unbridled, sudden laughter.

'Are we insane?' Hugo asked eventually. 'I don't know why we laughed.'

'I'm insane,' said Angel. His face was suddenly gaunt, for a moment his beauty made inhuman by the darkness in his face. 'Unbalanced. I think I'm dragging you down with me.' He splayed out his fingers so he could see his false nails, remnants of the person he was apparently forbidden to be. They were red and sharp. 

'I'm too selfish to keep you out of harm's way.'

*

‘You took your time,’ said Velvet sourly. 

‘I was asleep,’ said Angel. He felt odd, un-made-up and barefoot, but managed a passable imitation of his usual confident demeanour. ‘So ... why are we in the storeroom?’ 

Cameron grinned. ‘Take a look in these bags.’ 

Angel opened it, and his eyes widened. ‘But – but –‘

‘We used Google Maps to figure out the closest skip to your house,’ said Rachel smugly. ‘Got in Hugo’s mum’s car and loaded all the clothes bags into it. And we’re going to organize a fashion show.’

'It was Hugo's idea,' said Velvet, who was the only one who had really noticed the change in Angel. She had also clearly noticed the newfound steadiness in his hands and manner. She caught Hugo's eyes and gave him a genuine smile.

Angel blinked. ‘A fashion show?’

‘We’ll do all the organizing and publicity for you,’ said Scarlet. ‘You concentrate on making the fashions.’ 

‘But – but-'

‘Won’t this make you happy?’ asked Scarlet seriously.

Angel bit his lip. Hugo felt another jolt in his stomach; he didn’t know why an anxious and vulnerable Angel was so appealing to him, nor was he sure that that was an appropriate feeling to have. 

‘It ... it will, it’s just-‘ His voice tailed off, the confidence gone. Scarlet looked extremely curious.

‘So it will make you happy, but you don’t want it?’ She pulled out an A4 lined booklet, black in cover. ‘May I please take some notes?’

‘Scarlet, it’s not appropriate to take notes. People aren’t test subjects,’ Rachel said, in a voice appropriate for a long and detailed lecture about atomic structure to a particularly distracted three year old.

Scarlet looked up at her lazily, like some sort of lizard. ‘Oh?’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Angel brusquely, shaking his hair out of his eyes. ‘That sounds – that sounds amazing. I’ll do it.’

‘Are you alright?’ Velvet whispered, leaning towards him.

‘I’m fine,’ he said defensively. Hugo covered Angel’s hand with his. 

‘I’m here to talk if you want to,’ he said sweetly.

Angel smiled, the sweet smile again. ‘Thanks.’ 

Velvet scowled a little, then swallowed.

‘Down to work,’ said Scarlet imperiously. ‘Angel, sort through these bags and find all your own, passable creations. Unless you think there’s a better way to start?’

‘No, that seems fine-‘

‘Excellent. Hugo, have your mother begin to ring up her fashion friends and invite them. Rachel, collect the names of both local and multinational designers –‘

‘Multinational designers?’ said Angel, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He threaded his fingers through Hugo’s.

‘Yes,’ said Scarlet crossly. ‘ _Please_ don’t have me repeat myself ... – and get their contact details. Once Hugo has finished with his mother he can begin petitioning. Velvet, you like music. Start collecting ideas for a playlist. Cameron, begin searching for models. Mali, make a list of suitable venues. Sophie-‘ 

*

‘You do like my idea, don’t you?’ Hugo asked anxiously. 

Scarlet had allowed them, at last, a break, after Sophie had quietly explained the importance, and he and Angel were sitting on Hugo’s bed eating cookies. 

‘I love it, Hugo. This – this is my dream come true. That’s ... that’s why it’s so scary.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘As a dream, it’s amazing and flawless and I can take out everything I don’t like. Now it’s real. I can fail. I can fall. And ... I’m going to have to tell them.’

‘Who’s them?’

Angel was silent.

‘Your grandmother? Your brothers?’

He nodded.

‘Your dad?’ 

Angel bit his lip and lent his head back. ‘It’s so ridiculous, but I kind of ... want his approval still. I know he’s full of crap and if they weren’t my family I’d probably hate them. But I want him to like me and like what I’m doing anyway.’ 

‘You can’t live your entire life trying to make your dad approve of you,’ said Hugo gently.

Angel thought about Riya and Aarav and Hiran and Jayesh. ‘I can, though.’ 

‘You’re braver than that.’ 

‘Am I? Underneath my makeup and my shoes, am I?’ He flexed his legs, pointing his feet. ‘I think I just project someone confident to hide the fact that I’m a coward and insecure.’ 

Hugo knew this mood. He lay down on the bed next to Angel so their faces were close – too close, for when they were just friends, but now it was different - and murmured gently, ‘I think we all hide things.’

‘We make ourselves out to be amazing things... but you’re right. We’re all just hiding things and projecting crap but in the end we’re just cowards. But we still act – we act like mankind is so fantastic. Even though in the end, we’re just rotting bones in a wooden box.’ 

Hugo had known that they would end up there, but it scared him nevertheless. He tried to verbalize what he thought – that everybody left imprints on the generations to come, no matter how big or how bad or how wonderful or how small. ‘Maybe. But the things we build outlive us. Your dress will live longer than you ... your name will live longer than you. Everyone has a legacy. Mandela. Joan of Arc. Hitler. Mother Teresa.’ 

‘I’m not Nelson Mandela, though, Hugo.’

‘You’re too amazing to live without a legacy, Angel.’

‘It doesn’t matter anyway. They’re still all dead.’

‘The Ancient Greeks thought that you weren’t dead until your name was forgotten.’

‘The Ancient Greeks thought disease came out of a wedding gift from the gods.’

Hugo allowed himself a smile.

‘Well, even so, there’s people alive, isn’t there? Obama. Russell Brand. Trump and Putin and JK Rowling... some of them are awful and some of them are great, but I bet they’ll all be remembered.’ 

‘And they’re going to die.’

‘Everyone’s going to die.’

‘So what’s the point?’ he asked drearily. ‘What’s the point of prolonging feeling if you’re just going to end up not feeling anyway?’

‘You’d like not to feel?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘No,’ said Hugo. ‘Then I wouldn’t feel for you.’ There was a pause, in which Hugo flushed bright red, and added quickly, ‘and my mum, and-‘

‘I know.’ 

For a while they lay there, and then Angel tilted his head and shifted his body until his face was just above Hugo’s, and kissed him. It would have looked a very awkward manoeuvre on anyone else, but Angel made everything look elegant. Hugo thought that it was because he danced. The kiss was barely a kiss; it lasted barely a second, like the touch of a butterfly onto a flower. Hugo felt his heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings against his chest.

‘Hugo?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I like feeling for you too.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave any thoughts down below v
> 
> Who do we think the murderer is?


	6. A Mould of Oneself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As things continue to spiral downwards with Jerome, something (or someone) unexpected happens to Sophie. Angel's mother attempts to bring him back into the family, but due to his reluctance and the entrance of a potential rival, the plan fails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: abuse (right at the very beginning), some emotional abuse/manipulation from Angel's family too?? Cameron being something of a creep
> 
> Sorry that this was a day late! My laptop is broken and it's made my situation a little sticky in terms of when I can upload.

‘Where you been?’ 

‘Out,’ said Sophie quickly, attempting to move around him; he gripped her hair. Sophie breathed out a ragged sort of choky breath; he laughed mockingly. 

‘Pathetic,’ he spat. ‘So, I said, where you been?’

‘I’ve been-‘ 

‘ _I’ve been-_ ’ he repeated in a mocking high pitched voice. He began counting on his fingers. ‘I know you ain’t got a boyfriend ‘cause you ugly. I know you ain’t been doing schoolwork ‘cause you stupid. I know you ain’t been out ‘cause you got no friends. So where you been, Sophia?’ 

Sophie hated it when he used her real name. Nobody called her Sophia; everyone called her Sophie. She hadn’t been able to bear it when other people called her by her actual name. When people at school had called her Sophia, she had jumped and shook, hearing Jerome’s voice echoing in her head, and it had been too unbearable to not change. Now she wished she hadn’t. He had corrupted her name, polluted it. Now it had no good connotations.

‘I got a job.’ 

Jerome’s eyes gleamed. ‘How long you reckon it’ll last ‘fore they realize you stupid, Sophia?’

Sophie knew this sort of game. But she didn’t want to play it, not today; she tried to gather on confidence and made to push past him.

He cackled and grabbed her wrist, squeezing it painfully tight. ‘You think you something, Sophia?’ His arm’s rippled, like Cameron’s had when he had helped her lift a heavy box of shoes; she had flinched at the flex. The memory brought a florid rush to her face. She thought he had definitely noticed, because he’d looked at her strangely.

‘Now come on, tell me. How long do you think this job will last?’

When was the fashion show going to be ready? A couple of months, Scarlet had said, give or take ... but her prediction didn’t have to be right, anyway. It was a source of entertainment, a humiliation game. 

‘A few months. I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know. That’s right. Don’t think you know anything, really, do you Sophia? You can clean and you can cook. You can marry some man, maybe. He’ll cheat on you. Maybe leave you, because you ugly. I said so already, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, Jerome,’ she said quietly.

‘Haven’t heard you say it.’ 

There was a pregnant pause in which Jerome’s grip on her wrist tightened like a noose. 

‘I’m ugly.’

‘And?’

‘And stupid. And I haven’t got any friends.’

‘That’s what I thought. Your job paying?’ 

‘I ... no. It’s work experience.’ She tried to not let the relief that she hadn't accidentally said "yes" rise. If she'd said she was getting money she'd have to actually find a job.

‘You going to get a job full time after this?’

‘Probably not. I could try and negotiate it but-‘ She felt panic rising in her chest like vomit at the lie. Luckily, Jerome interrupted her.

‘You couldn’t negotiate your way out of a bag of plantain .’ 

Sophie looked down. 

‘See? You can’t do nothing ... fix me something to eat then get upstairs.’ 

‘Yes, Jerome.’

‘Yes, Jerome,’ he said again, in that fake high-pitched voice that she hated. He sank into the sofa, then clicked his fingers.

‘What you standing there for? I ain’t got all day. You gone make something for yourself?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Sophie quickly.

Jerome sneered. ‘Just as well.’ He sighed impatiently. ‘ _What you standing there for_?’

Sophie fled.

*

‘Angel,’ Riya begged. ‘Just come down and eat.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘You must be hungry. Don't you want something to eat?'

‘Not if it means I have to eat with _them_.’

‘Advik!’ It was his mother, looking spectacularly furious; Angel always knew when his mother was angry, because she used his real name. She had clearly heard the latter part of their conversation. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Come down.’ Angel loved his mother, and believed that she loved him too, but she had little patience for discussions or expressions of negative feelings, especially those that resulted in an uncomfortable household for herself. 

‘No,’ said Angel deliberately, crossing his legs.

She breathed out. ‘All you need is some nice get-together time. As a matter of fact I’ve planned something.’

‘I don’t want to do anything with them. I hate them.’ 

‘Advik! They’re just clothes!’

Angel’s lips tightened into mutiny. 

‘Mother!’ Riya said. ‘They’re not just clothes to Angel, you know they’re not. And you wouldn’t like it if Daddy had Hiran and Jayesh comb through and start throwing away all your things.’

‘I’m a parent,’ said his mother sharply.

‘ _So_?’

‘That’s _enough_ , Advik. Downstairs _now_.’

Angel was tempted to stay, but he heard something in his mother’s voice, so he reluctantly trudged down. 

‘Advik.’ It was his father. He turned his head away.

‘Advik,’ he hissed furiously.

‘In _my_ day-‘ Grandmother began, but Riya interrupted.

‘Angel’s here and that’s enough, considering,’ she said severely. ‘He’s compromised, not you. Now let’s not bother him.’

Angel managed to eat his dinner in relative civility. For the most part he was left alone, for which he was feeling bitterly grateful to Riya, and he had to admit he was softening slightly on the topic in general. He thought perhaps that Hugo’s ingenuity, the – albeit secret – return of his clothes and the premise of a fashion show was what had mollified him.

Maybe it was just the idea of Hugo.

_Hugo._

Every time his thoughts drifted down Hugo’s path – which happened fairly often –his heart fluttered sickeningly and he became embarrassingly easy to placate. Everything about Hugo made him remarkably biddable; it didn’t help that Angel had had long, torturous years in which to memorize every adorable little quirk that the other boy had, giving him an extensive list to choose from. Hugo hummed when he was bored. He tapped his fingers when he was enthusiastic about something. He sniffed so that his nose wrinkled when he was sad.

Hugo was beautifully imperfect; his eyes sleepy and his lashes flicking different directions, his hands worn by camping trips and DT projects and hard work. Angel examined his own hands. At that angle, fingers and thumbs tended to hang awkwardly, but his hands posed like an artist’s drawing. Despite the squared, uneven nails and thick growths of hair over the knuckles of his family, he had hairless fingers and beautifully rounded cuticles. Every nail was long and pink, no milk spots, tipped with white. He wondered when he had started holding his body and moulding his expressions and perfecting every detail of himself.

His mother used to say that hardworking hands always showed labour. Angel, unlike his family, appreciated the labour of diets and hand creams and nail filing but, when he turned his fingers and looked to the side, he was oddly satisfied to see the pinpricks of needles and chafing of fabric marking his skin.

‘Anyway,’ said his mother excitedly, ‘we’re going on a whole family hike.’

Grandmother smiled grimly. She enjoyed the countryside, and insisted that walking was good for her rheumatism. Often the entire family had been forced out into hours of agricultural education due to Grandmother’s rheumatism, which Angel severely doubted the existence of. Grandmother had had a cadaverous, gaunt body bent into a parabola through her age, but she moved remarkably fast for an old lady and was the fittest out of all of them.

‘And...’ she added, ‘I invited Hugo and his mother, too!’

Angel blinked. ‘You did?’ He didn’t understand why he had mixed feelings; it would certainly make the trip more bearable, but Angel always associated Hugo with mellowness and marshmallows and hot cups of cocoa; he was those stupidly fluffy jumpers, and strokes of paint and mountains of cake; he was the quiet evenings in which Angel’s mind felt reasonably at peace with itself. Hugo was not connoted to his family or mud or Grandmother’s rheumatism.

‘Yes, and she accepted,’ his mother said excitedly. ‘So we can get to know Angel’s friends, and do some nice family bonding.’ She looked pleadingly at Angel. ‘That’ll be nice, won’t it, Angel, pet?’

She stared at him, eyes wide and imploring. Angel didn’t know if she was pleading with or commanding him, but he knew better than to disobey. It would either end with guilt-tripping or punishment.

‘Great,’ he said with a fake smile. ‘ _Absolutely_ fantastic.’

*

The day of the hike dawned annoyingly quickly. Angel had not even approached the subject of Hugo with his parents; he was quite sure that it had rained last night, meaning that it would be less of a hike and more of a wade through a dirty stream; and his shoulders already ached from the upcoming pressure of his backpack.

‘The _modern_ woman’s here,’ Hiran announced with a snigger.

‘Hiran! Don’t be rude,’ his mother snapped, rearranging her shirt. She stopped at once at the sight of Hugo’s mother, who had clearly made an effort and was clear of any paint stains and the usual swinging, stubby braids. With her hair loose down her back, she lost her startling youth, but still looked very unlike a mother. She was wearing a mostly pink ensemble compiled of a cropped vest-top and tight shorts that left a large amount of cream skin exposed, and a bulging pink backpack. She looked extremely excited to be there.

‘Morning!’ she said brightly. ‘It was lovely of you to invite me and Hugo, Samaira. I always think we should go out to the country more, but it’s not really something you ever get round to, really, is it?’ She laughed. Aunt Prisha made a non-committal noise of agreement. Things were always gotten round to in Angel’s house, if you didn’t count healthy familial relationships.

Hugo followed with a sweet smile. He was wearing the cream jumper that he had lent Angel, and a pair of new brown hiking boots. He turned to Angel and asked with his eyes.

_Have you told them yet?_

Angel shook his head as inconspicuously as he could.

‘Your hair wet?’ Grandmother asked sarcastically from the corner. ‘And your hair’s down?’ she added, staring beadily at Arianne.

Arianne tilted her head to the side in confusion, her curls tumbling over her collarbones. Aunt Prisma made a mildly offended noise. Aarav looked as if he didn’t know whether to be ecstatic or mocking. Hiran looked as if he was quite decidedly ecstatic.

‘I think my grandmother is saying that your hair could easily be caught, on such a long hike,’ he said in an impressively jovial voice.

Angel hid a laugh. ‘Dream _on_ ,’ he muttered. Hiran glared at him and attempted to stamp on his foot.

‘Oh! Well I did bring some spare hair bands,’ she said brightly, pulling one from her wrist. ‘Thanks for the tip,’ she added cheerily, seemingly oblivious to Grandmother’s acidic expression and tone. Her face was contorted into one of her most cruel scowls yet.  
Perhaps afraid of what her mother would say given the time, Angel’s mother quickly suggested that got a move on, and they began the hike, a long, straggling line of varying degrees of athleticism. Hugo was good at sports, despite his firm hatred for them all, except swimming. He loved the feel of the water sliding over his skin as he cut powerfully through the waves. Angel disliked everything about swimming; being cold and the pain of diving, the blurriness and sting when his goggles failed and the lack of attractive swimsuits -not to mention what chlorine did to his skin and hair -but had gone to several pools in order to accompany Hugo. 

He had to admit that the sight of Hugo swimming through the water was somewhat attractive, with his strong arms and bare chest, even if it was done in the overly bright, artificial atmosphere of a swimming pool. Angel always refused to swim, but he watched him from inside the distasteful pool water, which was something, and occasionally even engaged in splash fights that he would never win. Now he noted one of the benefits of Hugo’s exercise. All the swimming had done him good; he had broad, strong shoulders and a built stamina beneath his fluffy jumpers and cocoa addiction, and Angel could tell that he could have been strolling up at the front with his brothers and cousin had he wanted to. Nevertheless, he hung back and walked next to Angel, smiling at the sight of his defiantly fashionable outfit. It was a lot more rustic than he usually went; the leather, battered boots left much to be desired, but he had made up for it in elaborate crimson lipstick and nails and short shorts. The cold and abundance of stinging nettles meant that they had to be paired with black tights, but it in fact worked quite well. 

‘You look nice,’ he said. ‘That’s not especially surprising, though. You always do.’

‘So do you,’ Angel said. Hugo looked sceptical. ‘You _do_ ,’ he insisted. ‘In your own sort of Hugo-way. I like it.’

Hugo smiled, and they enjoyed some silence. Angel noted the ease with which he strode up the road.

‘You don’t have to wait for me,’ he said, less out of an offer and more out of a wish for the reply.

‘I want to.’

Angel noticed Riya turn, her eyebrows creased and eyes suspicious, and shifted uncomfortably. Riya was a better sibling than Hiran and Jayesh, that much was certain, but Angel doubted that she was above going to his mother and father if she found out about Hugo. Riya had old-fashioned ideas about dating, and firmly believed in parental approval and a certain age limit, which Angel thought hovered somewhere around eighteen. He had never shared his risqué escapades with Scotty or Anastazja or Azi or Eileen or Nathan with her for this reason, and though his relationship with Hugo was certainly more loving and thought-out than any of those, he doubted she’d approve any more. He couldn’t swallow a sickening feeling that Riya might disapprove of him dating Hugo because he was a boy, no matter how nice his cookies were.

Angel knew that that was very problematic. But every time he wondered about his elder sister, he had flashbacks of her swinging him by his arms, feet flying; picnics in the park, throwing cream at each other and getting scolded by their mother; her cooing over his fashion projects and modelling his clothes, even the oldest, clumsiest ones. Hiran and Jayesh and Grandmother were so much easier than his mother and father and sister to hate. Even as a child they had pounded and pummelled and poked fun at him. But when that was mixed with memories of love and happiness and laughter, he could never allow himself to be validated in his feelings.

Hugo appeared to notice that Angel was uncomfortable and sent him a comforting look, wordlessly understanding his predicament and managing to make it look friendly as possible. Angel looked up at the flatly grey sky and was unimpressed. He much preferred the blue of Hugo’s eyes.

*

Sophie answered the door, her hands rattling the door knob, and made an attempt at a shaky turn. Her breath hitched at the sight of-

_‘Cameron?’_

‘Hi.’ He grinned sheepishly.

‘Is – is there something you need? Why are you at my house? Wait – _how_ are you at my house?’

‘I got your address from Scarlet,’ he said, having the grace to look shame-faced. ‘She didn’t have your phone number so I kind of hoped you’d be in. Is this a bad time?’

‘N – no,’ said Sophie, ‘it’s not bad exactly. It’s just – why are you here?’

‘I wanted to know if you wanted to hang out.’ 

Sophie blinked. ‘H – hang out?’ she checked. ‘Why?’

Cameron shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I thought we should know each other better. You seem – you seem almost scared of me. I don’t want you to be.’

Sophie knew she didn’t always do a good job of hiding her shakes and flinches, but at first she hadn’t expected Cameron to notice any of it. Sophie had always connoted loudness to insensitivity - which was judgemental on her part, she knew - but had quickly noted that Cameron was unusually perceptive. His dark eyes snagged on secrets and quiet things in their meetings, and Sophie thought that he had it all logged in his mind. When he’d stared at her when they were getting the clothes, she’d known he had noticed, but she certainly hadn’t assumed that he would approach her about it. 

In a way, she appreciated the honesty. She knew of people who whispered of her behind corners and asked her veiled questions. Nobody had ever really come close to the truth. Certainly nobody had ever pursued it.

That didn’t mean she wanted to go out with Cameron.

‘Where do you want to go?’ she questioned.

‘I thought we could go shopping,’ he said, leaning against the door frame.

Sophie had not been expecting that answer, and she readjusted herself in surprise. 

‘Shopping?’

‘You like pretty things; clothes and jewellery and stuff, right?’

He _was_ perceptive.

‘Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean I-‘ she struggled. ‘I just don’t understand why.’

‘You’re scared, I like you, and I don’t want you to be afraid of me,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And you like pretty things and I think you should have more. If you don’t want to come, that’s cool, and I get this entire situation is kind of stalker-ish and I should have thought it through, but I promise I’m not a creep or anything. If I was I’d totally stand still and let you batter me with your handbag.’

Sophie believed him on some level of her soul, but she couldn’t shake the panic in her throat. Cameron screamed ‘danger!’ to her, even with that cheeky smile. He was loud and clever and reminded her of Jerome.

‘I – I – if my brother comes home, he’ll get mad.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Cameron, with so much understanding in his tone that Sophie flinched away from it. ‘I don’t want to put you in – in a bad position or anything.’ He was choosing his words so carefully that Sophie knew that he knew, and wondered.

How had he been able to guess? But more importantly, how would she be able to pretend to him that nothing was wrong?

‘I’m not going to be in a bad position,’ she said breathily. ‘I – I-‘

Looking at him more closely, he didn’t remind her so much of Jerome as he had. They looked alike in their basest forms; they had similar features, that smooth, flawless cocoa skin that Sophie wished bitterly that she had inherited from their father, and the slim, strong build. Sophie knew the power in Jerome’s arm, how much strength was in a simple flex of his fingers, and she saw the same in every jump of Cameron’s muscles in his arms and legs. But there was humour in Cameron’s mouth and a kindness in his eyes, and he held himself differently-

‘Sophie? I can go if you want.’

Sophie looked at him.

‘I don’t want. I’ll come with you.’

*  
‘Now that’s the country, that is,’ said Grandmother, with enthusiasm.

‘That’s mud,’ said Angel, unimpressed. ‘A large, wide ditch of wet, gross, mud.’ 

Mud seemed an altogether too solid word to describe what appeared to be an entrenched, viscous river with an abhorrent smell. The rain from the night appeared to have demolished an already catastrophic landscape and effectively taken the hike from dull and exhausting to messy and awful.

‘It’s Mother Nature doing her work,’ said Riya fondly. 

‘Mother Nature works for a sewage company. I’m not walking through that.’

Arianne looked irritatingly gleeful. ‘I’m going to have to buy new shoes for this.’ 

‘You need new walking boots anyway, Advik,’ said his father, who, to his credit, was trying to be kind. ‘I’ll buy you some like Jayesh’s. They’re the best model in the shop.’ 

Angel looked at Jayesh’s shoes and grimaced. ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’

‘You’re all ridiculous,’ said Grandmother. ‘What a bunch of children.’ She sneered and began a precarious hobble over the mud. 

‘Come on, _Angel_ ,’ Hiran mocked. ‘Are you scared?’

‘Mostly revolted, but a little nauseated,’ said Angel, looking at the sticky cesspool of oozing, thick mud. ‘And unsuitably steampunk or not, I’m not putting my shoes through that.’

Aarav chuckled. ‘To think, I was worried about bringing my girlfriend!’ Arianne’s eyebrows locked together.

Angel felt something inside him snap. ‘Ignoring that, it’s not like I have many shoes to spare, is it?’

The atmosphere became very cold and very tense. Grandmother, who seemed to have found some island of solidity amidst the sludge, turned in her boots to observe. Riya’s mouth opened then closed again. Angel’s father’s face clouded over.  
‘Advik,’ his mother said, very coolly. ‘That is quite enough. Just – just walk.’ 

 

Angel normally wouldn’t have ignored his mother in front of a guest, but he felt quite comfortable making a scene in front of Arianne, who was looking quite irritated with his mother herself. One wouldn’t have noticed if you didn’t know her, but her jaw was clenched.

‘I’ve got plastic bags if you want to tie them around your shoes, Angel, dear,’ she said, producing them from somewhere within her bottomless rucksack. ‘It was Hugo’s idea. He didn’t think you’d appreciate the mud.’

Angel let out a smile. He had no desire to tramp across the countryside wearing plastic bags over his feet like an indigent clown, but Hugo’s thoughtfulness struck an emotion inside him that he couldn’t overrule. ‘Alright, I’ll tie the bags over it.’

‘Advik! Don’t make a scene!’ 

Advik ignored her.

‘ _Advik _!’  
‘You’re the one making this a big deal,’ he said coldly. His mother’s face went very pale then very flushed. She disliked any sort of conflict that caused her discomfort, but furthermore this was in front of strangers. Her lip quivered.__

__Arianne smiled as if she hadn’t noticed. ‘Come on Angel,’ she said, attempting to tie bags around her own feet and almost overbalancing. ‘Let’s not waste perfectly good shoes, eh? Last one to that tree has to do the washing up on Joanna’s next day off!’_ _

__‘Joanna?’ Jayesh questioned._ _

__‘She’s our cleaner,’ Hugo explained brightly._ _

__‘Doesn’t your mother clean?’ asked Grandmother, with a slightly condescending air. Arianne still did not reply, but her tone became a little harder, her eyes like blue steel._ _

__‘I do my best,’ she said with a laugh, ‘but artistry is messy and unscheduled work. Joanna’s a fantastic help.’_ _

__‘Angel mentioned that you were an artist,’ said Riya bravely. ‘What do you paint?’_ _

__Arianne smiled. ‘Usually landscapes, now. I think it’s so lovely and beautiful, scenes like this. The sky and the trees...’_ _

__‘The mud,’ said Hugo and Angel in unison. Such snark was usually above Hugo, so Angel knew that he was doing it only out of solidarity, and smiled._ _

__‘ _Advik_!’ his mother hissed. Arianne laughed and swatted at him with a leftover plastic back._ _

__‘You’re menaces, the two of you,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how I raised two such naughty boys.’ She laughed playfully, tottering off into the mud, not noticing the impact of her words; Angel’s soft, slow smile or Hugo’s supportive squeeze of his arm – the way Riya’s shoulders tensed and head jerked – how his mother’s eyes widened in rage. Arianne appeared to not notice what she had said until Angel’s mother gripped his arm and yanked him towards her._ _

__Arianne smiled a smile of steel and wordlessly accepted the challenge._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for making it all the way down here! Please leave your thoughts down below vv


	7. Tongues, Throats and Feather Boas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hike appears to end surprisingly well. Sophie allows herself to enjoy her time with Cameron, but reality brings it crashing down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just- _actually_ update on a Friday?
> 
> TW: panic/anxiety attack, implied abuse

‘You look most beautiful, ma’am,’ he said, in the kind of British accents Americans did.

‘Who are you supposed to _be_?’

‘My lady, I’m your esteemed butler. I’ve been in the family for years.’

Sophie giggled and flicked the feather boa around her neck, the majority of her self-consciousness having been discarded in the past hour. Cameron, posing in a pair of sparkly sunglasses and a pink floppy western-style hat, made a big show out of pretending to swoon and then rectified himself. 

‘You want the feather boa?’

‘Oh, Cameron, please don’t spend any more money on me.’

‘You say that, but the heart wants what it wants.’

‘The heart can _probably_ do without another fake feather boa,’ said Sophie, but her smile was grateful and genuine. 

‘I like buying things for you,’ said Cameron, switching as Sophie now knew he did from endearing silliness to blush-inducing seriousness. But before she had time to react, he had transformed back into the butler again. ‘Are you sure there is nothing else you would desire, my lady? I suggest we journey to Lush. I hear there is a splendid selection of bath bombs there, and your magnificent butler has just run out.’

‘I never thought that people actually used those,’ said Sophie, in surprise. ‘I’ve never bought a bath bomb.’

Cameron gasped. Sophie was not sure how much of the loud exclamation was put on.

‘My lady, we journey to Lush at once! I cannot believe you have deprived yourself of this necessity for this long!’

‘Stop being ridiculous!’ said Sophie, but she was laughing.

‘I’m not,’ he said indignantly. ‘We are going to stay in Lush until you find the scent that you like and you are going to use it. If I must personally run you the bath I shall, but you will not die without having luxuriated in a suitably bombed bath.’ 

‘You talk so eloquently,’ said Sophie, noting it with surprise. ‘It’s not something you notice, what with all the basketball tricks and jokes.’ 

‘I’m not stupid,’ said Cameron defensively. 

‘I – I didn’t mean-‘

‘I know you didn’t,’ he said glumly. ‘I’m just overprotective about it. Sorry.’ He bumped her hip, but very softly. Sophie had been panicky around his touches, but he’d apologized for each one that had made her flinch and she’d soon realized that everything he did to her he did impossibly gently. It still didn't stop her tensing, but each time she relaxed just a fraction more. Cameron took it slow enough that Sophie knew he'd endured this process himself. ‘Sorry - just as _you_ should be for having never bought a bath bomb!’ 

‘Cameron!’ 

‘After Lush, we’ll go to a jewellery shop. You like sparkly things.’

‘And _you_ like spending unnecessary money!’ Sophie’s tongue was flowing freer than it had in years, despite the fear in her stomach from her previous slip up. It made her feel panicky, but the rational side of her remembered the softness that had come after it, the gentleness of the touch and the kindness in his face, and couldn’t help it, couldn’t help but rejoice in the new freedom that she had. 

‘I’ll bedeck you in jewels. I’ll buy you tiaras, princess, and necklaces, sweet duchess-‘ he began, placing a hand to his brow.

‘Stop,’ said Sophie, her face scarlet. ‘If you agree to not finish whatever you were saying, I’ll go to Lush and the jewellery shop with you.’

‘Whatever you will, my darling countess-‘

‘Cameron!’

She heard laughter behind her and turned to see a girl who made her stomach lurch, though she wasn’t quite sure where she knew her from. The girl was tall and shapely, mixed race like Sophie, though with hair more tightly curled and blonde, and her eyes blue-green, quite close together. She was wearing a lot of black leather if you thought about it in relation to the total amount of clothes she was wearing, which, relatively to everyone else, was not a lot. She was baring slightly forward bright white teeth like she and Sophie were great friends.

‘He’s cute,’ she said, a little condescendingly. ‘A lot cuter than your brother’s ever been!’

One of Jerome’s new girlfriends. Sophie’s stomach drained. Annabeth - or Aileen? No. Andrea.

‘But Jerome's just one of those,’ she said. ‘All the same, you stick to those sensitive types, girl!’ 

Cameron touched her arm. She jumped away like he’d scalded her.

‘Sophie,’ he said quietly. ‘Do you need to go outside?’ 

Her vision blurred and she felt the panic rising within her chest, her throat closing, hands clamming –

‘I – I-‘ You could hear tears behind her voice.

‘She’s just gone a bit faint,’ she heard Cameron say somewhere. ‘I’ll take her outside – I’ve got some water in my bag-‘

Sophie closed her eyes and found no strength to fight Cameron’s arms off.

*

Angel’s mother was furious. He could see it in the tightness of her lips, her cold voice, hear it in her terse tone and it would have been very difficult to miss her temperamental attitude; Arianne, who had an overprotective Mama Bear side when it came to all people she considered as part of her family, was clearly equally angry. The tension between the two women was palpable and pungent. 

‘Here seems a good picnic spot, darling,’ said Angel’s father, the only person besides Angel’s uncle who could have failed to notice his mother’s dour mood. 

‘An excellent one,’ said his mother in a brittle voice. She didn’t break eye contact with Arianne as she sat down. Riya looked horrified; Hiran, Jayesh, Aarav and Aunt Prisha appeared simply gobsmacked, discussing it whenever they could in low, conspiratorial tones. 

‘I like your makeup, Angel,’ Arianne said, with a smile. 

‘You do?’ Angel’s father and brother asked in horrified unison.

‘I call myself an artist, but my eyeliner always goes wobbly,’ she said with a little laugh, looking appreciatively at Angel’s dramatic flicks. ‘Angel’s like my own personal stylist. He always knows about which top goes with which shorts, he notices paint stains hours before I do-‘

‘Paint stains?’ said Angel’s mother, in a voice that sounded like she was saying _nuclear weapons_? 

‘I don’t see a problem with paint stains,’ said Arianne. She paused. ‘If your household is loving and supportive.’ Her tone was ice. 

Angel’s mother put a sandwich down on her plate in a murderous sort of fashion. 

‘You can be supportive while being stern,’ said Aunt Prisha stiffly, who had a surprisingly strong connection with her sister. ‘I don’t believe in pampering my children.’

‘Oh?’ asked Arianne, innocently disbelieving. ‘I always thought it would stunt one’s confidence, overly firm handling, but your son appears very ... abrasive.’

Samaira’s eyes flashed.

‘Mum’s really mad,’ Hugo whispered. 

Angel nodded fervently. ‘I might try and get a sleepover at yours tonight. Mine’s _insane_.’

‘So is mine!’

‘Yeah, but not at me. My mum’s going to hate me for weeks. My life is going to be so difficult.’ He bit his lip, suddenly feeling very anxious. He and Hugo’s newfound relationship wasn’t really anything different to their friendship at this stage, but with it came new fears and doubts. Apart from the sickening feeling that someone was going to find out reverberating through him like a pulse, he began to worry about what Hugo thought of him, something the immense trust he had in the other boy had ensured he had never felt before. 

No, it wasn’t the relationship. The more Angel thought about it, the more convinced he was that the intimacy between them when he had been upset was what had thrown the relationship somewhere else. It wasn’t bad necessarily. It was like he was in deeper waters than he was used to, but as soon he figured out how to swim, he’d be fine.

He’d be better.

‘Come on, let’s leave before one of them stabs the other with a fork,’ Angel said, watching as the three women stared intensely at one another. Hugo let out a rare, lilting laugh, then stopped as if embarrassed. 

‘Come on,’ said Angel, soft enough for his dad not to hear, and they grabbed a plate of food each and escaped into a clearing a little further away. They sat down on the grass, and looked out at the sky, streaked with the soft pastel colours of the sun’s rays. Angel usually hated rain, after a few mishaps with non-waterproof makeup and outfits that had been ruined, but he found himself developing a penchant for the aftermath, the perfect little droplets and the pretty sky and the petrichor. 

‘I don’t like nature much,’ said Angel quietly. ‘But I like this.’

‘I like it too.’ 

They sat there in pleasant silence until Angel gathered the courage to voice his fears.

‘You don’t mind me coming over, do you? If my mum says yes – tonight? Or you know – any time?’

Hugo looked surprised. ‘Of course I don’t. I love having you over, you know I do.’ He lowered his voice, his cheeks red. ‘Mum might be extra about us sharing a bedroom.’

Angel laughed and collapsed onto his back. Hugo’s cheeks reddened further.

‘Angel! You know...’ he lay down next to him and wriggled uncomfortably. ‘I’ve never done any of that stuff. Not ... not with anyone – a boy or a girl. And when I say I haven’t done _anything_ -‘

‘I know,’ said Angel, with a shrug. ‘We did talk about this sort of thing before, remember? I don’t mind. You know I don’t.’

Hugo did the ridiculous little wriggle again. ‘You don’t?’ 

‘Of course not.’

Hugo didn’t say anything. Angel could tell he was still upset, but he was unsure as to how he could comfort him, so he said nothing. Soon they had descended into silence once again. Figuring that the topic would crop up again sooner or later, Angel took advantage of the tranquillity and lent his head to tuck it into the crook of Hugo’s arm. He’d always quite enjoyed his small stature, as it looked quite attractive on him - and meant finding more unconventional clothing for men easier - but since he’d discovered the strength that Hugo hid and how well Angel’s little body could get lost in it, he’d begun to revel in it. There was something wonderful about it, the way he could cast off everything and be small and sweet and insignificant in Hugo’s arms. Hugo was so strong, but so gentle; Angel could close his eyes and let himself fall into complete nonchalance, trusting Hugo enough to take care of him. He was so used to feeling brash, feeling confident, feeling powerful, because of the way everyone viewed him and the way he made himself seem. He knew that he could not take those barriers down and live in his bubble of quiet forever. The world was judgemental and cruel – but Hugo, he knew, and could always know, was not. He was Angel’s comfort blanket, where he could be the one who was coddled and cuddled, not the one that everyone thought didn’t need it. He was his safe space; he could be him in his imperfectness and still be accepted.

He always had needed it, though, and needed it more than most. But that was he and Hugo’s secret.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Hugo wondered. Hugo’s hands –big and strong and weathered –found his. 

‘You,’ Angel answered honestly. It was overly cliché and he was appalled that he had said it, but Hugo’s cheeks flushed like Angel hadn’t quoted a large number of B-List movies and had said something remarkably and uniquely romantic instead. He was glad that Hugo was a kind audience, because Angel found himself putting more and more effort to be the especial, eloquent, excellent Angel by the day.

‘I want to compliment you back,’ Hugo confessed bluntly. Angel turned expectantly. This sort of worship had been routine in his other relationships, but he felt bad exploiting Hugo, particularly when he saw his embarrassment. His cheeks were red and his head ducked.

‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ he said miserably. ‘You know what you’re doing. You’re smart and you’re lovely and you’re beautiful and I really want to kiss you, but I have no understanding of anything further than that. I’ve never been with anyone before; I never really thought of anyone except you, and even that I thought as a crazy dream. Now it’s real and I can’t quite believe you’re actually here. You’re amazing and fantastic and Angel and I’m just Hugo. Oh God, I - I really don't know how to do this.'

‘You _are_ doing this, Hugo. And a lot better than I did.’ 

‘I am?’

‘And you’re not _just_ Hugo. Hugo is amazing.’ 

Hugo allowed himself a smile.

‘And I swear that this is new to me as well. In past relationships I’ve been a throat to stick someone’s tongue inside, and vice versa. And there’s not anything wrong with that,’ he added defensively, ‘it’s just ... I love being around you, I love trusting and knowing you and I think I might even have been around you long enough to say that I love you.’

Hugo’s face was like boiled lobster, but he made it look cute.

‘Is that a thing we do? I love you’s?’ 

‘I’ll say it, unless it makes you uncomfortable ...’ Angel swallowed. ‘You can say it when you mean it.’ 

There was a pause in which the only sound was the droplets of water falling to the ground.

‘I know that you’re meant to wait to say this sort of thing, and we haven’t been together together a long time, but we _have_ been together for years and Angel-‘

Angel’s breath hitched. He felt his heart beat, just once, and then Hugo spoke again.

‘I love you.’

*

‘Sophie. Sophie, are you okay?’ 

Sophie opened her eyes. She was sitting on a bench outside the accessory shop, her heart still pounding and hands still shaking, but she didn’t feel light-headed anymore and her vision was clear. 

‘Water?’ 

She took it and drank. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I – I panic sometimes.’ She opened her mouth to elaborate, but couldn’t muster the words.

‘Don’t apologize,’ said Cameron softly. ‘That’s fine. Do you want to go home?’

Sophie considered the question. On one hand, being outside was usually hell for the anxious, introverted Sophie, even more so when she’d fainted very publicly in Cameron’s arms. She would love to go and be in her own space. But she didn’t have own space, not in her house; Jerome would be there, perhaps Andrea, and then she’d be dead.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m – I’m fine.’

‘Sure,’ he said, with another one of those wide, broad smiles. ‘If you need to go slow or take a minute, make sure you tell me, okay? Hey – you mentioned you wanted some makeup, right? We can go Superdrug. You can do me a makeover.’

‘You wear makeup?’

Cameron shrugged. ‘Nope, never. But it’s just for fun, right? I want to see what I look like with my eyebrows all done and stuff.’ Sophie laughed, and she felt something lift. She was still depressed and anxious and living in an abusive home, and no amount of muscled, amusing boys could ever change that, but there was happiness, now, when before all the misery and anger and pain had wafted around undisturbed and alone.

Many miles away from Sophie, two boys stared out at a beautiful pastel-streaked sky. One dark-haired boy had his head buried into the other’s chest. They were holding hands. Neither of them said anything, but there was an understanding there, that they were at peace. They didn’t notice a silhouette behind them, watching. They simply soaked up the sky and quiet and petrichor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	8. An Imitation of Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel and Velvet's respective families cause them to crumble. Cameron and Mali fight over her refusal to accept Sophie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: homophobia, transphobia, being outed against one's will, violence, arguing, blood, cuts on arms, a form of self-harm I guess
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please leave kudos and comment if you get to the end!

‘Advik. Where are you going?’

Angel’s father massaged his temples as he took in Angel’s outfit. His narrow, suspicious eyes took in the denim suspender skirt. They frowned as he took in Angel’s blouse, cream with a black bow. They slid over the black Doc Marten boots (not normally his style, but cute, and sweet with the white frilly socks he wore) and then came up again to stare accusingly at Angel’s lipstick, despite it being a pastel pink that was subtler than most of Angel’s colours, and the eyeliner flicks, which weren’t subtle at all.

‘You didn't think to throw _any_ of that out, Jayesh?’ his father asked, rather wearily. He was growing increasingly bored with trying to monitor Angel’s outfit selections, but did not dare try a raid on his wardrobe again. Angel sometimes dared to think that, after having some time to mull things over, his father had achieved some semblance of guilt, but for the majority of the time he felt that this was overly optimistic. Mainly, he thought his father had understood that the method was ineffective, as he was still being forced to monitor Angel’s clothes, not to mention the pernicious effect it had had on his home life. Angel still was barely speaking to him and Riya had made it clear that she disapproved as well.

Angel, on his part, completely ignored the appraisal of his clothing, but answered the original question. ‘To a friend’s.’ 

‘We _did_ throw that out,’ said Jayesh indignantly.

‘Well, you didn’t if it’s here,’ said Riya sensibly, quelling the argument. ‘Toast, daddy?’

His father grunted and accepted the toast.

‘Not that Hugo?’ his mother asked sharply. Riya stopped buttering Jayesh’s toast abruptly; her hand stiffened around the knife she was holding.

‘I thought the boy was alright,’ Angel's uncle said. ‘Good hiking boots. Arch support. Sensible.’ He looked scornfully into the shoe cupboard into which he assumed Angel's boots resided and shook his head in contempt.

‘Well, it’s not a good family,’ his mother said, her voice rising close to hysteria. ‘You aren’t to see the boy anymore, Angel.’

‘I'll see him when I like,’ said Angel, his tone immovable. 

‘Angel, you’ll do as your mother says,’ said his father, but his tone was unusually mild-mannered. ‘Though he _did_ seem a good boy, Samaira.’ 

‘I don’t care what the boy’s like. I don’t want him around that woman.’ Angel glared.

Angel’s father blinked in confusion, but Grandmother cackled in glee, clearly appreciative of this new development.

‘Oh, the modern woman isn’t as fantastic now, is she? What did she even do, apart from helping the boy make that stupid scene with bags over his feet?’ She snorted. Angel's mouth tightened.

‘I thought I was supposed to take care of my things,’ he said in a cool tone.

‘That scene you made was ridiculous, Advik,’ said his mother coldly, ‘and I didn’t appreciate you ignoring me like you did. And you are _not_ to ignore me now. If I say you can’t see someone, you can’t see someone.’

Angel remembered Hugo’s words from before. 

‘I’m braver than that.’

‘Stop being ridiculous, Advik,’ said his father impatiently. ‘You’ll do as your mother says. Look, Samaira, you’re overreacting. It’s just that it’s a rich family, and the woman coddles him. If we monitor him there’s no need to stop him seeing the boy-‘

‘You have to!’ said Riya suddenly. ‘You can’t just let him run wild! You need to make sure that people like that don’t influence him!’

Angel gaped at her. ‘What the hell?’

‘I’m allowed to have an opinion, Angel!’

‘I didn’t say you weren’t.’ Angel’s voice was sullen. The remark she had made, despite being something routine from Aarav or Grandmother, was a bitter betrayal on behalf of Riya, and Angel felt it like a blow. He made an attempt at verbalizing his feelings. ‘But - but you’ve always been on my side.’ He was aware that he sounded like a petulant child, but didn’t know how to communicate the solidarity he’d had with his sister and how safe that had made him feel. 

He didn’t know what to do now that connection had been broken.

‘I am on your side, Angel! I’m saying this because I am on your side.’

‘You can’t say that you’re on my side and then try to ruin my life!’

‘I’m not ruining it, Angel, don’t you see?’ She was looking at him for sympathy, or understanding, or any form of acquiescence, however reluctant, but found none, and this appeared to anger her more. She threw down her butter knife and grasped Angel’s shoulders. ‘Don’t you understand? You’re not one of those people! You’re not – you’re not like him!’ 

‘You’re not making any sense!’ Her fingers dug in almost cruelly, and he yanked his shoulders away.

‘You’re not _like him_ , Angel-'

‘You’re insane!’ Angel pulled his arm away from her flailing hands. ‘What’s _wrong_ with you?’

‘You’re not, you’re not-‘ Riya was babbling now, almost incoherent.

Everyone was staring.

‘Riya,’ his mother said, ‘what on _Earth_ are you talking about-‘

‘You’re not, Angel, you’re not.’ She was whispering now. Angel stared at her incredulously.

‘I’m not _what_?’

‘You’re not-‘ Riya sobbed, and then burst out. ‘You’re not _gay_!’

For a moment, Angel froze. He saw his father, very suddenly, put down his mug; his mother stopped where she stood, the colour draining out of her face; Hiran, Aarav and Jayesh’s heads both jerked up, their faces a mix of horror, sorrow and glee; and then he turned very suddenly on his heel, and pushed past Aunt Prisha and through the front door.

‘Advik! Advik!’

Angel ignored the shouts and opened the front door. He would have liked to sit by his house, gather his thoughts, but he could already see his father storming through the house, throwing the doors open; he turned on his heel and ran down the street.

*

Angel was not, in fact, going to Hugo’s. This was odd; when he, Velvet and Hugo communed, it was usually in Hugo’s house. But Velvet’s parents had been asking how Hugo and Angel were doing overly persistently lately, in the sort of way that meant they wanted to see for themselves. 

This request was greeted with glum acquiescence. Nobody particularly liked spending time in Velvet’s home, Velvet least of all. Angel always felt that he was in a cross between a psychiatrist evaluation and a parent-teacher conference with a teacher that disliked him. They disapproved very strongly of Angel’s clothing choices, referring to him when they thought he was out of earshot as ‘that crossdressing boy’. They also liked to blame him for the fact that Velvet was transgender, despite her coming out a year before she had met Angel, and their constant misgendering of their daughter needled at him too. Hugo they liked; he was sensible and polite, he was very good at steering the topic of conversation away from politics, so they never heard as what they referred to as ‘liberal namby-pamby’ from him, and they had yet to discover that he was interested in his own gender.

Despite this, Hugo always felt just as awkward as the rest of them in the house, perched precariously on the chairs. They were pinstriped like Velvet’s mother’s suit. She was looking very distressed about Velvet’s clothing, a tight black dress, off the shoulder, worn for the most part to aggravate her parents.

‘I don’t like that – that piece of clothing, Victor.’ 

Angel tilted his head innocently. ‘Who’s Victor?’

Velvet’s mother shot him a scandalized look and busied herself with handing out the chicken. 

‘How is school, Advik?’ asked Velvet’s father, butchering the Indian pronunciation as only he could.

‘Good,’ said Angel listlessly. 

‘Hmm? Victor mentioned that you didn’t do well on the last science test,’ her mother chimed in at once. 

‘Who _is_ this Victor?’ 

‘We are a good household with Christian, conservative values, Advik, we’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this new – gender - discussion while we eat,’ her father said, his voice trembling with barely lidded anger.

‘Mention this new _gender discussion_? I live here!’ Velvet snapped. 

‘Yes, you live here by our grace and under our parental guidance,’ her mother said, voice suddenly very sharp. She caught herself midway through her rant and smoothed down her dark hair. ‘We are entitled to an opinion,’ she said primly, taking a forkful of cauliflower cheese. ‘Would you like any condiments with that, Hugo?’

‘Uh – um – no condiments is fine, thank you.’ 

Velvet put down her fork. ‘I’m fine without dinner at all.’ 

‘I disagree, Victor, you need to eat.’

‘Well, I’m entitled to my opinion,’ said Velvet brightly, but her smile was too wide and wobbly, precarious, like Angel’s had been. ‘I’ll be leaving now, Mother. Hugo can enjoy his condiments.’ Her voice dripped with scathing sarcasm, a darkly vituperative tone that most people would have felt bad about utilizing in the mere presence of Hugo. His mouth turned down at the corners. 

‘I said no condiments,’ he said quietly.

Velvet shot him an expression of barely concealed disgust and flounced out of the room.

‘He isn’t eating-‘

‘-that medication he’s taking-‘

‘We should go after her,’ Angel said loudly, blocking out their voices.

‘She probably doesn’t want to see me,’ said Hugo, his mouth wobbling. His eyes were glassy but his expression steady. 

‘It’s not you, she’s just mad,’ said Angel gently.

‘I know, but – I don’t think she likes me very much. Not anymore.’ 

Angel looked at him in surprise. ‘Course she does.’ 

Hugo sniffes. Velvet’s mother looked very perturbed. 

‘If my son-‘ Hugo shifted uncomfortably; Angel rolled his eyes ‘-has been rude to you, Hugo, don’t take it personally.’ She sipped sourly. ‘I think it’s just teenagers. But Victor-‘

‘Velvet,’ said Hugo and Angel in unison. 

‘He’s just been incredibly rude to the both of you, and you still defend - him?’ Velvet’s father let out a smug little laugh that baited something in Angel that had been aching to snap all evening.

‘Her gender isn’t negotiable based on her behaviour,’ he said coolly, ‘and if you wouldn’t mind, I’m going to talk to her.’ 

He turned to look at Hugo. He was wearing a blue jumper today, vintage and periwinkle and slightly faded, and utterly Hugo. Angel could tell that Hugo would prefer to stay where he was, but there was a gnawing feeling that he should be with Hugo regardless.

He rolled his eyes at himself.

‘You want to wait outside?’ he asked. Hugo would never outright walk out on Velvet’s parents, but Angel was ready to tug him out of the room if necessary. Hugo hated awkward social situations. 

Hugo flushed a brilliant red, but shook his head timidly, his soft blonde hair shaking across his forehead. ‘Thanks,’ he whispered. ‘But I’m fine.’ He giggled. ‘Thanks!’

Angel shook his head and stared in disbelief at the euphoric Hugo. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know. You just know me so well.’ Hugo let out another giggle, his face pink, and Angel shook his head and pretended that it wasn’t cute.

‘I’m going to talk to Velvet. I’ll see you,’ he said, in an odd mix of adoration and exasperation. Velvet’s mother set down a fork in a coldly suspicious fashion, and Hugo wriggled. Angel dealt well with Velvet’s parents, as she did with his, but Hugo had no experience in the area of difficult mothers and fathers. He was utterly terrified of Velvet’s mother.

‘Maybe I’ll go talk to Velvet too,’ he said, scrambling up from his chair. ‘Check that she’s okay. Thank you for the dinner.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Velvet’s mother. Her hawk eyes were narrowed in suspicion, but she let them go. Angel suspected that she didn’t want to deal with her daughter herself. 

‘I hope to see you soon, boys,’ Velvet’s father said in a voice that suggested there was nothing he wished for less.

*

The frown mark between Mali’s eyebrows deepened, imprinting a thin, short line in her forehead. She typed some more.

‘You need some chillax time, sis.’ It was Cameron, freshly showered, all dressed up in his favourite jumper and his newest pair of jeans. The mark deepened so much that Cameron almost expected to see a scratch of white skull instead of the dark line.

‘ _You_ need to get some actual work done.’ She didn’t look up from her computer still. Cameron knew these moods and hated them. They reminded him of him. He picked up on her waspish tone and stepped back, outside of the room. 

‘I’m going out,’ he said at last, deciding that to the point was the best way to go.

‘Mmm. With Sophie?’ she asked, in a disparaging tone. This time she did turn around to face him, which didn’t make him feel better. That meant she had an issue with it more important than her work.

And Mali’s work was important, very important.

‘What’s wrong with Sophie?’ he snapped, immediately defensive.

_Stay out of range ... accept what you can of what he’s saying ... don’t let him-_

He was thinking of _him_ , not her. His father, not Mali. Cameron wished that his father hadn’t managed to do it, pass down his own bad traits onto the two of them. It meant that they both lived in a perpetual state of fear for the other’s bad days. 

The bad days when Mali typed and worked obsessively, compulsively, just like he did. Hated to be interrupted, just like he did. Refused to admit it was unhealthy, just like he did. Turned the conversation onto Cameron and his lack of work if he brought it up.

Mali wasn’t him, though.

He even had had that little pinch in between the eyebrows, that frown line. Cameron was glad he hadn’t inherited that. But he had the rage, and that was worse.

‘Nothing’s wrong with Sophie,’ Mali said at last, and the reasonable tone sated his fear a little. His father had never been especially reasonable. ‘God knows you need someone sensible.’ Her tone was different now, biting, but that didn’t scare him. She sounded like a cold, cruel Mali in a bad mood. Not his father. He accepted what she’d said as probably true and ignored it.

‘But there’s something wrong with that girl. She’s been damaged. Probably throw herself in front of a car by the time she finishes school.’

 _Whoop, there it is._  
Cameron’s first reaction was a laugh. When he was a child, he hadn’t noticed the unashamed bigotry, the blatant ignorance, the lack of decency, in the things his father used to say. Sometimes Mali, with that narrow mind and plain, blunt way of speaking, managed to imitate it marvellously. He was somewhat glad he hadn’t noticed them when they still lived with his father, because he was sure he would never have been able to bite his tongue. Remarks like this always baited his condescension, his derision, his scorn.

‘And we haven’t been “damaged”?’ he said at last.

‘Well it hasn’t turned me into a weak girl like it has her,’ said Mali calmly. She started typing on her computer. Calm. She thought she had won.

‘She’s too quiet,’ she continued laboriously. Mali had his father’s arrogance, the belief that she was right, but the calm was new and refreshing.

He could enjoy the calm. But he couldn’t imitate it.

‘Then maybe she needs helping instead of being thrown aside like trash!’ He knew what his father would say to that. 

Stupid. 

Naive. 

Mali was thinking the same thing. He could tell. But she never voiced her father’s thoughts. She never could bring herself quite that low.

‘And how can you help her? You’re another kid. You’re her age. You’ve been through something pretty similar to her, we can guess, and we’re not like her.’

‘No, you’re a work-crazy freak and I’m a lazy boy who can’t do anything permanent with his life.’ Cameron was angry, shouting now; Mali had flinched at the ‘f’ word. He hadn’t meant to say that.

That’s what he used to say.

‘See? Maybe it’s affected you more than you think.’ Cameron hoped that Mali would swallow that as he had been forced to swallow his criticism of her, and not respond.

‘She’s still too ...’ Mali paused and motioned her fingers to symbolize whatever she thought, but it wasn’t coherent to Cameron. ‘Don’t get yourself mixed up with a messed up girl.’

Cameron swore at her. Mali’s head jerked. 

‘You’re the messed up girl. I can’t believe you’d write someone off because she’s been through exactly what you’ve been through!’ 

‘No,’ said Mali, her voice as calm as ever, but brittle now.

‘It affects people in different ways. You’d rather be scary than scared. So what, she doesn’t like going out in public? You try so hard to be scary. You’re not. You’re pathetic.’ He knew he had lost it, but he felt it, the rage bubbling up, and couldn’t find the strength to quench it. His words no longer seemed connected, coherent .He spat at his sister. ‘At least she’s not a cold bitch like you.’

Mali stood up and gave him one slap. Straight and to the point, like Mali. But it brought him back down to Earth alright, before it could spiral into a red storm that nobody would be able to quiet. They were used to being each other's blockades.

‘Well if you insist on courting your poor damsel in distress and doing your good deed of the day-‘ - Mali’s lip curled – ‘I should warn you, if you fly into a rage like that with her, you’ll scare her off for good.’

Cameron swore again.

‘She’s not a good deed, she’s a person, one that I like. And I don’t need your relationship advice, thanks, mainly because you’ve never been in one.’

It sounded childish, now he thought about it. He wrinkled his nose.

Mali didn’t reply to that. She was typing again. Cameron swore one last time and left the room.

*

Angel was worried. Hugo could tell. Not about Velvet; he’d been worried before that; twisting his hands into knots under the table, where everyone else couldn’t see. His smile was wobbly too; that big bright smile that had, for a while, returned to its former glory. And Hugo didn’t know what was wrong. He took Angel’s hand, hoping that would last him for a while. His mood was oddly precarious; Hugo could see him ready to break down again.

Velvet wasn’t the only one that needed checking up on. Hugo longed to take Angel home and make him tea and cake and take care of him as a boyfriend would. But, and even as he thought it he gave a guilty start, he and Angel had been spending a lot of time either as a two or with the whole Murder Club recently; never a three, like they had been. 

Maybe Velvet was angry. Maybe that’s why she disliked him all of a sudden.

Velvet was most definitely angry now. Her scarlet hair was sprawled across her head, tears beading in her eyes and ripping through her cheeks with pearly tear-tracks. Sobs were choking her with shudders, but she appeared determined to bring as much of her room as possible down with her. Her hockey stick was coming down on her desk ornaments, her wardrobe, her bookshelf; one swing shattered the window and brought down a hailstorm of glass, the shards dancing and spinning and catching rainbows in the light, drawing blood from Velvet’s forearms.

She was panting and furious, her eyes wild and angry and terrified. 

‘Velvet-‘ Hugo began cautiously, and all she did was glare. Her eyes suddenly narrowed as her mothers had done, catching on their conjoined hands. 

‘You two are together?’ Her voice was oddly brittle, oddly calm.

‘Yeah,’ Angel said nonchalantly, but the blush across his cheeks said something else. Hugo felt a warmth in his stomach at the sight, but he couldn’t help but eye the way Velvet’s hands clenched around her hockey stick.

‘We were going to tell you,’ he said softly. 

‘Yeah,’ said Angel, in surprise. ‘Of course we were.’ His lip wobbled. ‘It’s – it’s not a secret.’

Hugo’s hand grasped tighter, moving his thumb over the curve of Angel’s wrist. 

‘Any other not-secrets I should know?’ Her tone was acidic, oddly cynical.

Hugo shook his head. 

‘Then, I’d like you to leave,’ she said, her voice still brittle, but closer to the breaking point than it had been before.

Angel was braver than Hugo and Hugo was brave, but the two of them took one look at the wild red-haired girl with the hockey stick and the glass shards and the blood-stained arms and left without protest.

*

Angel had begun to ignore the persistent buzzing of his phone. He thought if he answered it, he might be tempted to think they were worried about him in a healthy, familial, non-homophobic way, and then fool himself into thinking they were rational, caring, that they’d be calm and understanding, and then dig a deep hole for himself and jump right in it to be buried.

He hated life.

‘What happened?’ Hugo asked quietly. He’d made Angel’s special favourite tea, St Dalfour’s Cinnamon with two sugars. Angel knew he was being babied. He didn’t really mind.

‘Family.’

Hugo nodded. It was often family.

‘They found out.’ 

‘About me and you?’

A nod.

‘Riya told them.’

‘Riya?’

Another.

Hugo held out his arms and Angel gladly burrowed into the jumper. It smelt of coffee, as Hugo often did, and Hugo smelt of the cinnamon tea bags. He inhaled the scent, closed his eyes and enjoyed the quiet for some time. It was comforting, but Angel could not remain that someone that needed to be comforted if he was going to battle. ‘I like this jumper,’ he whispered. 

Hugo smiled. 

Angel wiped his eyes fiercely. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘You’re going?’

‘I’ve got to sort it out. But just in case-‘ He went up on his tip-toes, because Hugo had had a sudden growth spurt all of a sudden, and left him with a goodbye kiss, long and gentle and sweet. Hugo smiled. He was holding him underneath his hip-bones, his hands steady and strong, so as to support him.

People loved to talk of butterflies, but Angel never got those. Hugo didn’t feel foreign or frightening or like a rollercoaster ride. He felt like home.

He allowed himself another ten minutes of relaxation. His phone was buzzing. Jayesh this time. Tears were beading and he felt tempted to take Velvet’s path and bring to his father’s house a hockey stick, but instead he wiped them away.

‘I ran out of waterproof mascara,’ he said softly. ‘Has it smudged?’

Hugo smiled. ‘A bit.’

‘Can you wipe it off?’

Hugo procured a makeup wipe and removed the offending mascara. 

Angel's lip wobbled again. He glared and screwed his mouth up into a knot. ‘I hope I don’t cry.’

‘It doesn’t matter if you do.' Hugo offered a sweet smile. 'It only matters that you wipe away the tears and get up again.’ 

Angel allowed the lowering of his self-imposed standards with relief. He wasn’t going to enjoy this argument, and he knew it. He relaxed back into Hugo, and was surprised when he spoke again. They spent a lot of time in silence.

‘I liked that you knew I’d be feeling nervous today.’ 

Angel smiled. He liked this new, unashamed honesty. He liked cinnamon smells and coffee-scented jumpers. He liked feeling like home. 

They will not, he thought, they will not and they will never take this away from me. 

‘I liked the kiss, too. But there wasn’t need for it.’

Angel looked up, eyebrows creasing in confusion, and Hugo smiled and let his hands drop so Angel had to support himself. 

‘I’ve seen that fiery look before, Angel. There’s no just in case here. You’re going to kick ass.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


	9. A Warrior in Lipstick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel has to face his parents, while Sophie has to face Jerome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is a week late! You do _not_ want to know what's going on in my life right now ... but anyway, to make up for it I'll post the next chapter right after this!

Angel travelled light. He kept four things consistently in his handbag; his phone, his makeup bag, his purse, and a scrap of paper with a quote written on it in cursive letters. It had been stained so it was faded in places, but he knew the quote so well that it didn’t matter. The author’s name, blurred away, was, however, long lost to memory. The whole thing was oddly superstitious for the normally cynical Angel, but it was always helpful in situations like these.

_Fairytales are not true because they tell you that dragons exist. Fairytales are true because they tell you that dragons can be beaten._

Had he been American, his senior quote. Angel was by no means a conventional boy. He had faced a lot of dragons, and stared at most of them wearing lipstick. But Family had always been the one that reared its ugly head the most to breathe the fieriest flames, and always the one that he had, to an extent, backed away from.

Now he had no choice but to unsheathe his sword. Whatever the outcome of this, he was sure that he would remain furious with his elder sister. But his anger at her was slowly being numbed by the rising fear. Approaching his own home was often accompanied by a sick feeling to the stomach, but now, Angel’s heart was thumping in his throat. He felt oddly tense, but oddly empowered too. He felt Hugo’s confidence in him thrumming through him just as powerfully as his anxiety. 

Jayesh opened the door. He looked oddly involved in the situation. Angel had imagined that he and Hiran’s only contributions to the discussion would be expressions of repulsion.

‘They’re waiting for you in the family room,’ he said nervously. He looked almost apologetic. 

Angel didn’t trust it.

‘Thanks,’ he said flatly, moving past him. 

‘Maybe you should change,’ Jayesh proffered. ‘You know – Dad was kinda mad about your clothes this morning.’ He left the self-explanatory _he’ll be more than ‘kinda’ mad now_ for Angel himself to decipher. 

Angel considered the offer but pushed it back. He wasn’t here to do his Family favours. He was here to come to them as himself.

‘I’ll see them as I am,’ he said quietly. Jayesh looked somewhat pessimistic about this plan. Angel had already known that this would be made an entire Family discussion, and had guessed they would already have discussed it at length, for the most part not kindly, but Jayesh’s manner dashed the majority of his foolish hope.

‘Grandmother’s not here. She says she - she doesn’t want to see you.’ Angel was sure that she had said it a lot less kindly than that, but he did not push the point.

'Thanks,' he mumbled, with a genuine surprise that he actually meant it. He assumed that it was motivated mostly out of fear, but Jayesh was trying to help and, in his own emotionally stunted way, trying to comfort him.

He closed his eyes and opened them again, then walked into the Family room. 

Their eyes all snapped towards him. Riya looked worried but, to Angel’s fury, not in the least guilty; his mother, tense and fearful, and then of course there was the inexplicable disturbed mood of Jayesh, but other than that their faces were cold as a biased court’s, judgemental and accusing. He felt like a stone in his throat had sunk into his stomach. There was no hope for him now.

He sat down.

The shouting from Angel’s father was incessant and, for the most part, blocked out. Angel’s father was terrifying when he shouted. Angel disliked raised voices for the most part because of it, and his father always could activate those anxious tics; the spasms of his hands, the biting of his lip, just as Hugo could calm them. He tried to keep as composed as possible but he knew it was not working. His own helplessness nagged at him, encouraging him to break, but even as he cried and shook there was defiant rage boiling behind his eyes.

_‘-disgrace the family, dress up like-‘_

The thought of Hugo soothed the wound and then rubbed salt in it. He felt a sense of irritation that he had done this, put himself through this, of his own volition. He could have stayed away. He could have done this over phone call. He could have waited for them to calm down.

_‘-warped, confused-‘_

Confused. Angel hated to be called confused. He had been rude, self-absorbed, insensitive, on many occasions, but he was never confused about things, just scared of them.

_‘I won’t have it in my home-‘_

Angel felt a jump of fear at one wild gesticulation. His stomach twisted. His eyes were glassy now.

_‘-disgusting, depraved-‘_

A single tear. Rolling down his face. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t cry.

No. He’d promised Hugo that he’d wipe them away. And that he did, for every tear that fell, and he was proud that he’d adhered to that promise, even if it was only one.

‘Cry all you want, I don’t care. You’ve brought it on yourself.’ 

Angel managed an attempt at a stony expression, but his lower lip was wobbling.

The family did not talk for a while. There was a quiet, sympathetic but nevertheless approving sort of silence for a while, and then his mother spoke. Her voice was terse and she was crying more than Angel had been.

‘Advik. I’d like to know the extent of your – your issue.’

‘You mean my experience with guys.’ His tone was flat, unrelenting. He would not sugar-coat this and he would not look at her, not while she was acting like he’d been drafted into war or diagnosed with cancer, when all that had happened was that she had found out about his boyfriend.

His father had an expression like he was sucking on a lemon. He turned away.

‘If you – if you must phrase it that way.’ Her tone suggested that she would rather he did not.

‘When did this all start?’ It was Riya, sounding empathetic, but Angel had no patience for her attempts at empathy at a problem she had caused. He ignored her.

‘Advik,’ his mother said, in a steely tone that Angel did not dare rebuff. _‘When did this all start?’_

‘In Year Eight, I – I started noticing that when my friends started thinking about girls, I was thinking about boys – boys and girls. I made friends with Velvet a couple of months later. She’s not – she’s straight, and she was already educated about that sort of thing. She was the one that first mentioned the word bisexual to me.’

‘Velvet’s that _girl_ , huh?’ asked Tanseem softly, her expression and tone openly mocking. Angel felt a bite of fury that urged him to hit Tanseem. He ignored her instead.

‘Bisexual?’ Aarav laughed. ‘I see. You’re confused, Advik, nothing more. Social media - and news, these days. It's no wonder it's affecting the children. There are people like him at the university,’ he said smugly, to the room. ‘The term refers to people that-‘ he laughed. ‘People that are attracted to both men and women.’

‘Stop calling me confused,’ he said, and his tone was cold. Aarav smiled condescendingly. Angel fought to keep calm.

‘I – I read up on it, and it made sense, but I didn’t really have much experience with guys or girls at that stage. In the summer holidays Scotty Parker told me he thought he was gay. He thought I’d understand because – I don’t know.’ He gestured down at himself. ‘I’ve always been … effeminate, I guess? Unconventional. He didn’t realize quite the extent that I did.’ Angel laughed bitterly, but no-one laughed with him. They were all staring, aghast. ‘I told him what I thought I was and he kissed me.’

‘You said he should be _friends_ with that boy,’ his mother snarled. She was staring furiously at her husband. 

‘Well, once Aarav told me of the boy’s condition, I-‘ his father began.

‘Can you stop talking about it like it’s some sort of illness?’ Angel interrupted, crossing his legs. He felt it then, the fire that Hugo had talked about, and was glad of it.

‘Angel-‘ Riya began, but he was still not interested in listening to Riya. 

‘I’m still talking,’ he said stubbornly. His father erupted in a derisive snort, but did not follow with any shouting, which Angel dared to clutch as a good sign.

‘Scotty wasn’t great. He was dealing with a lot of stuff, school and everything, and he came out to his family really early and they didn’t react well.’ He paused and gave his mother a pointed look. ‘He was kinda racist and obsessed with proving that he could still play sports and be masculine and stuff, he had loads of internalized homophobia, and – and it all bottled up and he started being toxic and controlling and – and it wasn’t –‘ Angel shrugged. ‘The relationship turned abusive, so I ended it.’

Aunt Prisha’s lips were in a long, thin line. ‘Did he ever hit you?’ she asked calmly. Aunt Prisha was a social worker and, Angel thought, was most likely in his family to understand him and his past, or at least the most likely to take it rationally.

Angel swallowed. ‘It wasn’t really consistent hitting or anything like that.' Aunt Prisha raised an eyebrow, used to evasion. Angel swallowed. 'He held my wrist once, so I had bruises all round it, and-'

‘Someone would have noticed that,’ his mother said at once. 

‘It’s not like you generally inspect my wrists upon arrival, is it? I just wore long sleeves for a week,’ he said impatiently. 

His mother glared.

‘And he slapped me. Once, round the face.’ His father looked up at that. His mother was crying again.

‘What happened then?’ Aunt Prisha asked, her voice still steady.

‘Velvet saw it and she punched him.’ Everyone stared. ‘And I broke up with him.’ 

‘Didn’t it leave a _mark_?’ His mother sounded hysterical. ‘Why was nobody noticing that he was coming home all bruised?’

‘I don't think that's what we need to focus on,' said Aarav.

‘What are you talking about? We could have stopped this before it all started!’ his father growled.

' _And_ ,' Angel's mother said vehemently, 'he was hit!'

'Focus on the problem, Samaira! It wouldn't have happened if he wasn't-' 

His father's mouth twisted. He didn't finish his sentence.

Aunt Prisha ignored her sister. ‘Did he force you to do anything sexual? Did you notice anything you might call abusive?’

Angel wrapped himself in his own arms. He decided to start with the small. 

‘He tried to convince me all of my friends were toxic, that I should spend less time with them, stuff like that. That was the reason he slapped me, because I was hanging out with Hugo.’ Angel hadn’t realized he was crying, but tears were running down his face, and he hated it. He wiped them away. ‘I figured then that I had to end it. He didn’t try much afterwards. When he came and tried to talk to me the next day Velvet punched him again.’ 

‘And Hugo didn’t do _anything_?’ asked Tanseem sanctimoniously.

‘Hugo’s a pacifist in all but entirely necessary situations,’ said Angel calmly. ‘You already know that.’

‘And you don’t think there’s something wrong with that, that he didn’t even defend you?’ Tanseem asked incredulously.

‘I can defend myself, and Hugo gets that!’

‘Well clearly you can’t!’ his mother snapped. 

Angel breathed in and then breathed out again. 

‘After Scotty I didn’t have any sort of long-term thing. There were girls and there were boys – none of you would know any of them, except maybe Tanseem-‘

‘I don’t want to know,’ she said pointedly, tossing her hair.

‘Good, I wasn’t going to tell you. And you’d have to kick some people out of your little girl’s group, wouldn’t you?’ he snapped, giving up any notion of decorum with Tanseem. He took a deep breath. ‘Then I started developing feelings for Hugo, like, non-friendship feelings, but I didn’t say anything. I knew he was kind of interested in guys even though he’d never done anything, but I didn’t think he’d be interested in me because we’re really different-‘

‘I don’t want to know!’ Hiran burst out. Everyone turned to him. ‘This is – this is disgusting! I don’t want to hear this. We don't need to know the details!'

‘Well it’s important we do,’ said Angel’s mother. She wasn’t looking at any of her sons, tears still rolling down her face. Jayesh was sitting quiet, head bowed.

‘Mum, this is gross. It’s disgusting. I don’t want to share a house with him.’ Hiran was spluttering. ‘Can’t I have a lock on my door if he’s going to live here?’

‘Excuse me?’ Angel said in disbelief.

‘I mean, no offense, but you’re attracted to guys. You can't really expect me to feel totally comfortable.’ Hiran was refusing to look him in the eye. Angel let out a laugh of incredulity, but he couldn’t find it within him to find Hiran’s statement funny. There was a cold tinge of utter disgust there. He couldn’t find the ignorance anything but repugnant, ugly. 

‘You’re still my brother and you’re still gross-looking and I still don’t like you,’ said Angel frostily. ‘You don’t see Riya freaking out because you’re attracted to girls, do you?’ He saw Riya hide a hint of a smile, and was upset to feel only a surge of fury that she dared to be amused by him. He didn’t know why that she had seen fit to destroy the one familial relationship he’d had left.

‘Look, I get that you probably don’t want to know about me and Hugo and how we got together or any of that stuff-‘

‘We _don’t_ ,’ said Hiran emphatically. Aarav shook his head in horror.

‘You’re at literal university, what the hell is wrong with you?’ snapped Angel.

‘What’s wrong with _him_?’ asked his father in disgust.

‘But whatever, look, I’m still who I am, and it doesn’t matter how much you try to erase this or squash it out of me or whatever you’re planning to do to me. It’s not going to work and I really think I’m past the point where this is a phase or whatever you were planning to pull out your ass.’ 

‘We don’t have cursing in this house, Angel,’ said Aunt Prisha. Uncle Sahil was still determinedly not looking at him. 

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Look – I guess what I’m saying is that you can accept it or not, but – if you’re not then – then I’m not going to compromise me to please you. I’m not going to try and hide away who I am, hurt me and Hugo and doubtless loads of other people, ignore my rights and – and everything I’m owed to sate your out-dated ideas. And that’s not just about me being bi. It’s about my clothes, and my privacy. I’m a person, not an object in your possession.’

‘You can get out of the house if you want to,’ said Grandmother. She was at the door, her eyes flashing like dark fire, and Angel could feel her hatred for him, feel it like the wind or the sun. ‘A few nights on the streets, we’ll see how _gay_ you are.’ She spat it out like a curse word. He didn’t bother to correct her.

Instead, he wondered if anyone would counter Grandmother’s verdict. 

Riya did, but by that time Angel had already pushed past her to pack his bags. He wasn’t bothered. He had Hugo to go to. Arianne had already said.

_‘If worse comes to worse, sweetie – I’ll pray it doesn’t – then you know you can come back here, don’t you? Take a quick overnight case and I’ll be over there tomorrow to pick up anything else you might want in the car.’_

He contemplated only for a moment, blinded by tears and heartache, that he was, despite his current feelings, extraordinarily luckily. Another teen would have ended up on the streets, to face the cold and rain, with all the emotional baggage Angel now had to deal with, and that was quite enough. He felt it breaking his shoulders like a boulder that rested there.

He texted both Arianne and Hugo. _Can I come to yours?_ Determinedly casual. He spent time reapplying his makeup, painting on the boldest face he could, bright lips, bold eyes, prominent cheekbones. His father flinched away from the face, his mouth twisted in disgust, and Angel was disgusted back. He was tempted to stay, to argue, but he wasn’t sure how long he could fight for.

Why was it that they’d rather he looked the way that they thought he should look than be brave enough to look the way he wanted instead of what the world told him he should look like? Why was it that they’d rather that he’d have the interests they thought he should be interested in than be ambitious and persistent enough to pursue interests that he was actively discouraged from? Why was it that they’d rather that he’d be a coward than himself? 

‘Angel.’ It was Jayesh. Again. Angel found himself suddenly blinking back tears.

‘What?’ His voice was like poison. Jayesh looked sheepish.

‘Go apologize, Angel. Say you’re sorry. They might let you stay.’

Angel laughed. Jayesh could tell he was mocking him, and normally it would have made him angry, but instead it made him feel ashamed. They didn’t tend to focus much on the good points of his little brother, but Angel had always been the courageous one. He remembered that when Angel was born, his mother had said he was brave.

And Angel was. He always had been.

‘Don’t you have any courage, Jayesh? Or pride? At all?’

‘You won’t have much if you’re homeless.’ 

‘I won’t be.’ 

‘Where are you going? You can’t just show up at that boy’s house.’

‘Arianne already said that if they kicked me out I could stay with them.’

Jayesh’s eyebrows knitted. ‘Bet she won’t actually let you stay.’

Angel threw him the phone.

_On our way to pick you up, sweetheart. Proud of you for being so brave!_

‘Did she know already?’

‘What?’

‘That you were gay.’ 

‘I’m not.’ 

‘I mean...’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Bisexual.’ 

‘Who, Arianne?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah.’  
Jayesh adjusted himself uncomfortably. His expression was heavy, disturbed by his thoughts.

It was probably the longest conversation that they’d had in years, Angel thought bizarrely. 

‘Bye, then,’ Angel said, his voice quiet.

Jayesh looked away.

‘You’re not going forever.’

Angel laughed again. ‘I don’t want to come back, Jayesh, believe me.’ 

Jayesh believed him.

Angel walked downstairs with his head held high and only turned back once. When he first turned behind him, there was some semblance of sorrow. But any sort of sympathy for the fact that someone could be that ignorant, that unhappy, that apathetic, it melted away once he looked at them – really looked at how pathetic they were with the smoke screens and the blurred glass taken away. 

There was fire in him, but as he looked onto the group masquerading as a family, he couldn’t find it in him to be angry with them. Not them. Not such a pathetic group of people. All he could feel was resentment for their cowardice, disgust at their ignorance, and bitterness that out of all the people in the world that could have nurtured him, these were the people that had attempted to bring him up and love him.

He wasn’t quite sure if he’d beaten the dragon or not. He knew that he was injured. He knew that the dragon was still living. But he knew he hadn’t run away.

They all watched him leave, staring. Riya attempted to touch his arm when he walked past her. He pulled it away.

*

‘Sophia.’ Jerome was standing at the door. She hated it when he came in her room. It was bad enough being around him somewhere else in the house, but here he was an intruder, an invader, encroaching upon what she liked to think of as her personal space, however impersonal it could become at Jerome’s command. 

‘I been talking to my girl.’ 

Sophia swallowed. Jerome never discussed his love life with her. She saw the girlfriends sometimes, heard them, and the nicest of them traded ‘hello’s’ and ‘goodbye’s’ with her, but he didn’t talk about them. They weren’t that sort of family, that talked about things.

There was only one explanation for this.

‘I think you know her. Blonde hair. Mixed girl. Like you, huh? Except she’s pretty. And you aren’t. Would’ve thought guys would run screaming from you. But that’s not the case, huh?’

Sophie didn’t say anything. 

‘Said you was out. Shopping. He was buying you things. What’s going on, Sophia?’

Nothing again.

‘I’d say you were paying him but you’re broke. And your new job’s not real, is it?’

Sophie shook her head, voice numbed by fear.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Cameron.’

‘Cameron,’ he mocked. That stupid voice again. She hated it. ‘How long you been going behind my back, Sophia?’

‘This is the first time I’ve gone out with him, I swear.’ Her voice rose and dipped with fear. He laughed mockingly, his eyes alive with some form of iniquitous pleasure, but as to what his game was, Sophie barely knew.

‘Oh, that makes sense. Probably won’t make the mistake again, do you think? What did you do?’

‘D – do?’

‘With your new boyfriend. When he took you out, what did – you –do?’ His voice was mocking, slow. He was walking towards her. 

‘He – he showed up. I didn’t know he was coming. He asked me if I wanted to come out shopping with him because – because he noticed that before I – I was scared of him.’ She hated it, that she was divulging all of this information to Jerome, that now he was going to control this too, but it was like he had her life on a fish hook. He could reel it in whenever he wanted. ‘So - so he asked me if I wanted to go shopping with him and you said you were getting lunch out today and I’d done all the housework so I said yes-‘

‘Shut up.’

Sophie shut up.

‘Well, let’s put a timer on it. Bet your Cameron won’t stick around long, huh?’

Sophie looked away.

‘Huh?’ 

‘Yeah.’ Her voice was quiet, but there was none of the usual certainty in it. After all, Cameron had witnessed one of her panic attacks on the very first day. That should have been enough to scare anyone off. And he suspected, at least, about Jerome... and he hadn’t left, not yet at least...

He must have seen some of the doubt in her eyes, because his hand swung, catching her chin. Her head snapped up with a sickening crack. Hot tears bit at her eyes.

‘I’m gonna be home by seven and I’ll want dinner.’

‘Okay.’ 

Jerome gave her a sarcastic little wave and was gone. Sophie wiped her eyes and pressed a thumb to her throbbing chin, but for the first time in many years, there was a gleam of knowledge of victory in her eyes. Because Jerome had not noticed the way her wardrobe door bulged with long-denied goods; how the once meagre jewellery stand now dripped with rings and bangles; how her makeup table was now groaning under the weight of expensive powders and creams. 

No, he didn’t know her secret. He didn’t know that Sophie now had things, had things of her own, things that didn’t have anything to do with Jerome. He bought her clothes because she had to wear them. He bought her makeup to cover the bruises. He gave her the money for food and even then she had to cook what Jerome wanted. She had nothing of her own, nothing that he had not tainted, not even her own name. 

But now she did. Now she had something that was hers. Hers and Cameron’s.

*

‘I can’t believe you let him go,’ Riya said. She had repeated it over and over again. Nobody had answered her yet, but Jayesh looked as if he would. He had stood up, looking uncharacteristically pained.

‘It’s your fault,’ he said. ‘You were the one who told Mother and Father.’ 

‘And you’d rather we didn’t know any of this, I suppose, Jayesh?’ Samaira sounded despairing, broken. ‘You’d rather we were in the dark? All children hide things from their parents. But if it’s dangerous or important, someone responsible will let them know.’ She recited it like a child would repeat something that they had learnt in school, laboriously and exhaustedly, but there was certainty in her voice.

Jayesh shuffled his feet.

‘Out with it,’ Grandmother snarled. ‘You’ve got something to say, you can say it.’

Jayesh swallowed. ‘I’m just saying – there are kids that would have told you when they started thinking about – about boys – and kids that would have told you what’s happening with Scotty – and I know Angel acts like we don’t bother him, but my room is next to his, and he cries a lot, at night and stuff.’

‘So you think it’s right that he’s what he thinks he is?’ Aarav laughed incredulously. 

‘I’m not saying it’s right. I’m saying that if something like that happens, if he’s confused or scared or thinking about things then he should think that he can go to his mum or his dad or one of his brothers. I’m saying – maybe we should be more, like, supportive and stuff.’ He sat down, looking very embarrassed. 

‘We have supported him! All his life!’ Samaira shrieked. 

‘You kicked him out!’ said Riya hysterically. 

‘Then why did you tell?’ Jayesh snapped.

‘I wanted Mum and Dad to talk to him, find out about how he’s feeling, and help him sort it out!' Riya whirled on them. ' _You_ are his best support system, and you have _failed_ him.’ 

‘There’s nothing wrong with tough love, Riya,’ said Vihaan tiredly. 

‘Tough love is sending a child to his room or giving him a smack. It’s not kicking him out of the house completely. That’s not you sorting out the issue, it’s you giving it to him as something he has to deal with while making sure that he won’t have shelter or good food or - or education-‘

‘He’s sitting outside on the front porch,’ he snapped.

Samaira’s head jerked up. She stared at her husband through a mask of tears. ‘He’s still out there? Oh Vihaan, call him back in, call him back in-‘

‘When he decides to come back in, he will, and he’ll have learnt some humility with it. He’s too proud. You see, Riya? I won’t keep him in the house while he fights to get out. He will come because he wants to come, and that will make him stay. There is a reason that he hasn’t gone any further. He’s thinking, because already he is doubting.’ 

‘What if he’s thinking about – about where to go, and he leaves, Vihaan? Bring him back! Angel! Angel-‘

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Samaira. Where would he go?’

‘Maybe – maybe to that boy and his mother –‘

‘He can hardly just pop up to their door,’ said Aarav. 

‘The woman’s on her way to pick him up. Maybe that’s why he’s waiting.’

Everyone turned, incredulous, to stare at Jayesh.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I went and talked to him. While he was packing his stuff. He was at their house before, and she said before he even left that if we - you - said he had to go, he could stay at theirs-‘

Samaira was shaking with rage. ‘Oh, I bet she’s _loving_ it – oh, that _witch-'_

‘You can call her what you want,’ said Riya coldly. ‘She wasn’t the one that kicked Angel out.’ 

Samaira flinched as if Riya had slapped her. ‘This – this isn’t my fault. And he’s - he's not – he’s not really going over there, is he, Jayesh? She’s not coming to take him.’

‘Yeah, he texted her when you said he had to go. She said she’s on her way.’ Jayesh looked both embarrassed and oddly proud to be the one that bore the news.

His mother’s face went pale as this sunk in. ‘Call him in, Vihaan,’ she said, and her voice was no longer hysterical, but faint. 

Angel’s father looked more worried than he had, but he wasn’t letting up yet. ‘He’ll come back.’

‘He doesn’t want to,’ said Jayesh sullenly. ‘He said that too.’

‘What do you want, Jayesh?’ Samaira’s screech startled the room. ‘What do you want? Do you want me to say that I’m a bad mother? Do you want me to say that I let that witch woman steal him from me? What?’ 

‘I don’t know!’ Jayesh was usually impartial to such matters, so it was odd to hear him shout. ‘I don’t know what I want! All I know is that I believed things and now I don’t. He’s – he’s my brother. He’s my brother!’ 

‘She’s here. The other woman,’ Hiran said, from the corner. He didn’t look too bothered, and appeared to be simply disgruntled that he had been discarded from the conversation. ‘That’s her car.’

‘You can’t be sure of what her car looks like,’ Angel’s father snapped. 

‘He’s getting into it,’ said Hiran. 

‘Angel! Angel!’ Angel’s mother pushed past her husband and hammered at the locked door, and forced her keys into the lock, hands scrabbling frantically at the wood; she ran out into the night and into the rain, but her son was gone. She sank to her knees with tears and rain racing down her cheeks, her dress muddied at the knees on the front drive.  
Samaira was not a woman that chased any form of heightened intellectuality. She didn’t tend to think about things that confused or frightened her out of curiosity or any self-imposed moral obligation. It was not in her nature and not the way she had been brought up. But as she pondered the events of the evening, she found herself questioning. She found herself thinking. And wondering. And wishing. Wishing many, many things.


	10. A Depraved Girl's Bible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They all break, and Scarlet seizes her chance.
> 
> In the present, the Police Department weigh in on what they have learned so far and struggle with some enlightening new evidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is!
> 
> This chapter is quite emotionally heavy, as a warning.

‘Do you want to come and have dinner with me, Scarlet?’

‘I do not,’ said Scarlet. ‘I haven’t in years, Mother. And, if I recall correctly, you have not asked me since a November 15th...’ She flipped through her notebook and found the page she was looking for. ‘Yes, in 2012. Why the sudden request?’

Her mother appeared slightly surprised, and then chastised herself. She had always known that Scarlet was a special child; oddly bold, very – according to some teachers, too – intelligent, with a dislike of social interactions and a somewhat offensive lack of tact. She reminded herself that as a mother, it was her duty to understand her daughter. She shouldn’t be surprised by Scarlet’s meticulous note-taking or eidetic memory. She’d had these habits and traits since she was a young girl. 

‘I – I noticed you’ve made some new friends.’

‘Yes.’ 

‘And you’re writing in white notebooks now.’

Scarlet looked at her mother, her risen eyebrows creating small clefts in her forehead. ‘Do you find any of that relevant?’

‘No, it’s just ... you’ve always made your notes on – death – in black notebooks. And just yesterday! That blonde girl came over. And there’s a space on your shelf – have you thrown one out?’

Scarlet stared at her mother. 

‘I – I’m sorry, Scarlet. I just thought it was a sign that things were – changing. Even if they are – slightly.’ Her words were disjointed, tremulous, compared to the blunt and bold eloquence of Scarlet.

Scarlet’s mother always was careful to say ‘death’ and not ‘murder.’ She did not like the fact that she was frightened of simply a word, but could not bring herself not to say it, even when she saw her daughter's tight lips twitch into a smile every time she said it. It never failed to amuse Scarlet. 

The smile pulled back into her usual expression as tightly as it had come.

‘It’s white because I’m writing about my club and my friends. Not murder. I thought it should have a different colour.’

‘Your friends. You mentioned them. There’s Sophie – and Angel...’

‘Cameron. Mali. Hugo. Velvet.’

‘Wasn’t there another girl?’

‘Not another friend.’ 

‘Oh. I see. Well, I didn’t like lots of other girls when I was younger.’ 

‘I’m sure. I’ve heard it’s a core part of social interaction.’ 

Her mother nodded. ‘Dinner up here, then, Scarlet?’

‘Yes, please.’

It only occurred to her as she was dicing tomatoes that Scarlet – her daughter, her prodigy, her little murderess, might deal with a dislike in a way that the law might deem inappropriate, but she shook it off as nonsense. 

Scarlet would never hurt someone. She was just odd. Strange. That didn’t mean she was dangerous.

‘Who are you writing about, Scarlet?’

‘Sophie.’

‘Ah. You like Sophie, don’t you? What about that other girl?’

Scarlet nodded and continued to write. Her mother stared down at the little chestnut head. Sometimes in the past she had craned her neck and tried to see, but Scarlet had always been onto her at once. She had given up that particular endeavour very willingly, a little in fear of what her daughter might have written.

Scarlet didn’t look up as her mother left. She just continued to write.

_Sophie is a good person, like Hugo. She is very shy. Her tics and attitude suggest some form of past or current abuse, most likely in the household. She thinks very much about others and is very easy to upset. I think she could be brave but she spends a very large amount of time being scared..._

*  
‘Is that a new dress, Sophie?’ Andrea. She was here. Again. Her blonde hair was in perfect ringlets as always. Heroines in stories had their hearts fluttering. Sophie’s heart pounded like someone was prodding it forward with the barrel of a gun. 

‘No,’ she said, quickly. Too quickly. ‘I’ve had it for ages.’ 

‘It looks new,’ said Jerome flatly. ‘Where did you get it? You got money? You know money goes in the jar, Sophia.’

‘Chill, Jerome,’ said Andrea, dragging a finger down his chest. ‘You’re scaring her.’ He batted his hand away, and her wrist clicked. She grasped it, and turned to Jerome, eyes furrowed. 

‘Jerome-‘ she began.

‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘So, where’s that dress come from, Sophia?’

Andrea looked hurt, but she didn’t say anything, just looked away and poured herself some juice.

 _Poor thing,_ thought Sophie. _You have no idea what kind of monster you’re dealing with._ She suddenly found herself wiping away stray tears, suddenly starkly aware that she should not have to know.

_Why hasn’t someone helped me?_

_Why can’t I help myself?_

_Why do people abuse other people?_  
*

_Angel is very vulnerable yet very strong. He’s loyal. I should like to be friends with someone like Angel is friends with Hugo. Angel is not always quite so good as Hugo, but he has morals and he sticks to them. I don’t think because he’s scared. He’s brave. Angel is very compassionate and doesn’t like to see people injured or upset. He does not have such qualms if he dislikes them, for example, his cousin Tanseem. I like them both._

Angel was sobbing, on his knees like his mother had been, but he didn’t know what she was doing. There was a part of him that longed to hope that she was distraught, wailing, wishing that her son was back. He crushed that part of him as stupid and overly sentimental.

In reality, he was not at all far from the truth.

There was another part that wanted to be back with his family completely, desperately, that was looking around the beautiful house and screaming no, no, this is wrong. But when he remembered the disgust in his father’s eyes and looked back to see gentle concern in Arianne’s, he could only accept what he saw as the inevitable.

His family would never have him now. He would have to accept a new one. But he couldn’t quite verbalize any sort of sense. He wanted what he wanted. And he wanted his mother. 

‘I want my mum, Hugo, I want my _mum_...’ 

_My mum should be here_ because _I want her. She should care that I’m crying._

‘Do you want me to call her?’ Hugo asked gently.

Angel shook his head and sobbed again and buried his head in Hugo’s jumper.

_Why doesn’t my mum love me?_

_Why doesn’t my dad care about me?_

_Why does my sister betray me?_

_Why would they rather someone repressed than someone different?_

*

_There is Velvet, who is usually with them. Velvet dresses like a rebel and many teachers dislike her. Some students do not like to use her pronouns and then she gets very angry. Velvet is funny and very honest. It is difficult to be bored when she is around, and I often find forced social situations such as school very boring. I like her company._

Velvet’s arms were healing but she was far from healed. The grooves between her fingers were crusty with dried blood. Hand shaking, trembling.

The acidic sting was good and terrible but above all morbidly addictive. She hadn’t meant to injure herself when she smashed the window, she was just mad – but the distraction from her feelings was welcome.

Velvet’s brain throbbed. Her vision was blurring. There was too much sound – too much noise. Boys shouting outside her window. The susurrus of the television downstairs. 

They were watching TV?

 _Why didn’t they_ care?

Velvet’s eyes were wet. The noises continued. She wanted to tear out her mind with her nails.

*

_Cameron is loud and seems stupid to unobservant people. He is funny and I think he cares for Sophie. He is good-looking and plays many sports, and is popular, but he mainly spends time with his sister. He is amusing but makes references I do not understand in his jokes sometimes. He can be very kind. I like him. Mali is very practical and very sensible. She does not talk much and is often exasperated with her brother. I respect her._

‘Why are you always working?’ Cameron kicked the chair. 

_Why do you ignore me like he did?_

_Why do you act like I’m stupid for not being obsessive like you are?_

_Why did he have to make her like him?_

The more he thought about it, the angrier he felt. He deserved to have a loving and functional relationship with his sister, not one spoilt and polluted by the mess his father had made. It was not fair that he had had the time to imprint his personal flaws and turn them into weapons, so the other sibling would fear the father in the other for as long as the scars refused to heal.

He wished he could be calm, but Cameron was raging. He was not sure how eloquently the thoughts in his head were being verbalized, but he knew that it usually sounded like nonsense.

Mali’s shoulders were hunched and tensed from Cameron’s assault. Now he was older, he _looked_ like him, sounded like him when he shouted and bellowed and spittle flew out of his mouth, and she wished, she wished that Cameron just _wouldn't_ -

_Why can’t he just control himself?_

_Why couldn’t_ He _just control himself?_

_Why do their issues always have to impact me?_

*

_Hugo is kind and very sweet. He would do anything for Angel. He is a good person, but he is innocent because he has a good mother._

_I correct myself. He is more innocent than the others because they have bad mothers and fathers. I do not want to set poor parenting as the norm in my mind._

_He is very responsible and cares greatly for social issues, especially those that impact animal welfare and the environment. He cares for others but mostly for his mother and Angel._

Arianne was unsure as to what to do. On one hand, Angel was comfortable with her - but not especially, and he was currently feeling frantic, terrified. She didn’t know how he would react to her presence in the room. And Angel’s suffering was impacting her own son as well. Angel was not the only one crying; Hugo was wiping away his tears, desperate to be strong for Angel, but he was still just a boy. Arianne did not hide her own tears. She had been reasonably self-contained until he had cried out that he wanted his mother and then she had started sobbing, out of pity for the boy she thought of as something of a son and rage at the woman who was so weak she chose this path above any other.

Hugo was angry at Samaira too, she thought, and I think that as well as empathy is fuelling his tears.

She was right. Hugo was furious at Samaira and more importantly, the millions of people like her. He wanted to take walks in the park holding hands and not hear slurs thrown at them. He wanted to give him a kiss on the cheek when they went shopping and not see horrified parents covering their children’s eyes. He wanted an evening with his boyfriend in which he was not hysterical because his mother had thrown him out like he was last week’s Chinese because he had kissed a boy. He wanted them to stop painting over his rainbow colours with grey. 

_Why are people so cruel?_

And, if hardship was necessary, he wanted Angel to have to hear about homophobic people on the news. He wanted him to read bigoted posts online. He didn’t want him to hear his own family spitting at him. He didn’t want him to go through this especially sharpened pain.

_Why did bad families go to troubled kids?_

_Why do people have children and then mistreat them?_

_Why was life so unkind?_

*

_Rachel is irritating. She thinks she is above us, I think, because she is here because she must be, and does her best to stay uninvolved. She finds me a bad person, which I do not object to, but thinks that under her instruction, I can become good, which I do. I am not incapable of morals. I simply know that I am limited by them. Explaining such a thing to Rachel would probably end with some form of patronising look. Rachel is, I believe, the weak link in our group. And I cannot forgive her actions of the last day._

_Somehow, she must be removed._

Scarlet’s pen slashed across her page, laying out curves and lines of ink and iniquity. Folders that had been untouched since her research had gone into them were thrown open; facts were checked in seemingly abandoned leather notebooks with cracked spines and wrinkled pages; Scarlet’s hazel eyes, frantic and enraptured and insane, scanned her lines of profligate strategy and, satisfied at last, held it to her chest like a Christian would a Bible.

But to wage her new war, she would need allies, and dislike was not a reason, to many, for depravity; no, Scarlet believed that dislike would not be their motive, but desperation. Scarlet was sure, not sure enough, but sure that these people were desperate. She did not know, and Scarlet liked to know, but she could deduce. Scarlet was observant. Cameron had noticed Sophie’s jumps and flinches – but not Angel’s shakes or the way that Hugo flinched at each tremor; not the constant, burning fury in Velvet's eyes; not the tenseness that coupled the closeness in the twins. Oh, they were desperate people.

_Why hasn’t someone helped me?_

They were fundamentally _good_ people, which was their problem. Scarlet knew a situation that would cause her any form of heartache would tear at her just once until she tore into it and ripped out whatever was keeping it alive. These people – no. They had not the intellect nor the courage nor the apathy to do what Scarlet would always do, and that was to drop any vexation in her life, however unnecessary.

_Why do people have children and then mistreat them?_

Scarlet had no morals to chain her to inconvenience. From a young age she had weighed up the apparent advantages of empathy and felt them to be inferior to what she could achieve if she released herself from them. But these people, they held themselves down and felt better for it. Lots of people who kept their morals murdered anyway, out of panic or thoughtlessness or despair. And Scarlet was sure that many of her new friends had much to despair about. 

_Why doesn’t my mum love me?_

Parents. They were oddly impactful on other teenagers. Scarlet would not have particularly minded had her mother been replaced with a subservient robot. They had a similar function; to bring her food and help around the house, and she assumed the robot would not have the irritating side effect of requiring any form of loving input or companionship on Scarlet’s behalf. But Scarlet knew her friends at Murder Club’s moods were oddly dependent on their familial lives.

_Why didn’t they help her?_

It was strange. Velvet; most likely depressed, and her parents were cold and neglectful, not the type to notice. Angel’s parents were the opposite, invading and probing, but Scarlet knew that Hugo had been responsible for Angel’s panic attacks for a long time.

_Why do you ignore me like he did?_

Cameron and Mali’s school files had been interesting reading. A schoolteacher had witnessed their father in a rage, leading to an investigation into their home life; and nine months later, the two children had been taken into the care of their aunt, a single woman who had been somehow legally bound to look after the children by the family lawyer. People assumed Cameron and Mali had grown through time, even forgotten their father. Scarlet thought that unlikely. They had been ten years old, more than enough time for any irrational fits of temper to result in paternal scarring that would have knotted their souls into clumps of similarly erratic tissue.

_Why couldn’t he just control himself?_

Poor children. So damaged, now so weak. Scarlet could only thank the proud, pathetic, prejudiced, pandering men and women who had broken these children; some of them, like Sophie, had become timid and vulnerable, perfect modelling clay. Others, like Angel and Mali, had become hard at the edges, sharp as glass, but just as easy to shatter. They just needed a puppet master to yank at the strings they had attempted to hide. As for Hugo – poor, sweet Hugo, so responsible and yet so naive. His mother had done him a great favour and a great disservice. He had none of the shrewd suspicion that his counterparts had, because from a young age he alone had had nothing to fear at home. But he was learning of the world, and would learn more soon enough.

_Why is life so cruel?_

Scarlet smiled. She could only guess at some of the pleas, but she knew they were there. She could hear them, like an indiscernible but deafening symphony. And Scarlet was the conductor, whipping her baton until they cried and wailed in depraved synchrony, begging to do her whim; channel their fear into frustration, their frustration into anger and their anger into evil – to goad, to trick, to lie, to cheat, Scarlet did not care, but she would have her orchestra of iniquity whether the world approved or not. 

She shuddered in pleasure at the thought of painting the world in blood, formerly confined to painting her notebooks with ink, torturous details of forbidden pleasure denied to her by law and power and social convention. But Scarlet could hear those pleas, hear them begging tonight; for what, she did not know, but she did know that anyone desperate enough to attend Murder Club in the first place would be ready to push aside those morals just a little further.

And by then, Scarlet would have cut off the gangrenous limb and walk away with a perfect new body.

*

Alone and afraid, together but still fearful, they cried out in terror and rage and sorrow, knowing that this fear was bad, but oblivious as to quite what it could do to them.

*

**Briefing Room, Dewbrook Police Station, 8:32 am**

Detective Inspector Boardman burst into the room. He was out of breath.

‘The knife – the knife, it’s completely blank. No DNA. It's all gone.'

Percival looked up, his face flushing a dark purplish-red in shock. Marilyn turned, her crimson hair shaken out of place. Her mouth was a perfect circle, an innocent ‘O’.

'Well?' asked Boardman, voice and face brittle. 'Any comments?'

‘I am – unsure as to how the knife was wiped clean from residue,' said Marilyn. She winced at the admission. 'The policeman’s involvement would explain it, perhaps. The game appeared to be very fast paced. Some of the special effects were remarkably good – the girl with the fake glass in her throat, for instance. Many of our policemen mistook her for the victim at first. Perhaps he wiped it down before the lights came on. He is clearly extremely efficient in whatever he does, and it is rather strange, his sudden departure, and the fact that nobody knows his name.’

 _Good God_ , thought the Inspector, _there’s nothing you can say but “I agree” to this woman. She thinks everything through._

‘Doesn’t the girl know – Scarlet?’ asked Percival.

‘She gave us the name she called him – Daniel Green – but she said she thought it was fake when she said it. She’s quite right, of course.’ 

‘I think it’s her,’ said James. ‘I really do think – I think it’s her.’ 

‘Perhaps,’ said Marilyn, her voice steely, ‘but we cannot go to court and testify on the fact that she is suspicious and very clever and we think it’s her.’ 

‘Worse accusations have been made in my years on the force,’ said Percival. 

‘Well, I’m not in the habit of making them,’ said Boardman sharply. ‘No – I’m still with Marilyn – our best way to Scarlet Turner is the other kids. What do you think? Who do we suspect? Who do we think we can rule out?’

James cleared his throat. ‘That Hugo kid is the most balanced out of all of them. Mother’s a good woman. People judge her as one of those flighty, don’t-care mothers, but she takes good care of him – dad’s not in the picture, but she’s got enough money to support him and from what anyone can tell it hasn’t affected the kid.’ 

‘Nothing has,’ said Marilyn. ‘His home life, unlike the other children, has been stable since he can remember. The world has been awfully kind to him until this murder debacle. I doubt that this sweet boy would know to be so defensive as his more hardened counterparts.’ 

Percival nodded vigorously, his round, rather clownish face taking on the more serious air that it could. ‘ _Never_ rule out the naive kid being used as the pawn – especially not just because he comes from a good home. Might do more harm than good in these cases – he’s easy to get.’

‘And what about his friends – Advik, I believe, though he goes by Angel?’

‘There is, of course, something of a teen romance going on there,’ said Marilyn. ‘Between him and Hugo.’ Her voice was neutral and sure as ever. 

‘Yeah –the Indian kid’s the type, isn’t he?’ Percival asked, looking critically at Angel’s mug shot. Despite being a suspect in a murder and spending his night in a rowdy party and then a police cell, he had managed to make the shots look like something of a photo shoot. 

Marilyn shot Percival an irritated look. 

‘He’s too calm,’ James said, looking accusingly at the photo. ‘Look at him – pouting for the camera.’ 

‘The antipodes, surely,’ said Marilyn. ‘Angel is a fractured boy from a recently fractured family. I doubt he is calm at all. Perhaps his appearance and attitude is something of a tiger’s stripe; a warning that is meant to convey that the castle is too well-defended to attack.'

‘The sort of thing Scarlet would see through,’ said Boardman grimly. ‘And a couple of girls we talked to mentioned that Rachel didn’t like Angel.’

‘A high school squabble is hardly a motive for murder,’ argued James. 

‘Not on its own. But Scarlet wouldn’t be above using that – and he’s a damaged kid. He’s been through a lot with that whole kerfuffle with his family. His father still looked disgusted at the very mention of him – and his Grandmother-!’ 

Everyone was silent. Not many people had enjoyed the brief interview they’d had with Angel’s grandmother.

‘All the same, I think he’s a smart kid,’ James was saying gravely. ‘Not the sort to get mixed up in a murder.’ 

‘Smart?’ Boardman questioned. 

‘Well – cynical, I guess. Shrewd. He understands people – and he’s strong-willed. He strikes me as the sort of person that Scarlet - or anyone - wouldn’t influence easily.’

‘And even if she did, he wouldn’t talk to us about it easily either,’ Marilyn remarked. 'How would an interrogation with someone like Angel really go?' 

‘What about this Velvet, then?’ asked Percival. ‘She’s clearly not mentally stable with parents like that. Seemed almost glad to wash their hands off her!’ 

‘Her parents _were_ remarkably unpleasant people,' Boardman admitted, 'but that doesn’t make their daughter a murderer.'

‘Well, what about that window the mother showed us?’ Percival demanded. ‘You’ve got to admit, that – person’s - not right in the head. And she’s cut herself accidentally – or on purpose, we don’t know - all down the arms – maybe he’s got a thing for violence-‘

‘Cuts down an arm means that someone needs help, not a murder accusation,’ Marilyn said rather sharply. For the first time, her voice had taken on something of an emotional tinge. ‘And you appear rather confused on this person's gender, Percival. Which suspect are we now considering?’ 

Percival’s face flushed, and took on rather an ugly look.

‘Well – what about the rest? Cameron – Mali – Sophia. Abuse victims, all of them. I’m not saying that makes them bad people, but they’ve got just the groundwork for manipulation.’ 

‘Are we discussing Sophia’s brother Jerome, or her mother?’ asked Marilyn calmly.

‘Well, her mother was the one definitively convicted.’ James was speaking again, flipping through a file. ‘Her name was Janet White. She committed suicide about a year after her children were put in the children’s home. When Jerome turned sixteen he got a flat. Sophie didn’t get on well in the children’s Home, and in the end when Jerome turned eighteen they let her live with him. Just recently he was convicted. What's this about the twins?'

‘Cameron and Mali’s father was, for the most part, emotionally abusive, but it was more than enough for them to get taken away. They got adopted by a well-off aunt. She works more than anything. Gives them money and a meal. Couldn’t give us much information on the children,' said Marilyn shortly.

‘So in short, any of them,’ said Boardman gloomily. 

‘I say we go round the houses again,’ said James. ‘The kids have all had an extreme low point – but we don’t know what happened after that.’ Not even Marilyn had wanted to push further. It had been trying to find out about, because most of them had cried, and their families had all been rather biased in their statements, but the police understood the bases of what had happened and were somewhat irritated by it. Any one of the children could have been in the sort of state that Scarlet would find easy to manipulate.

‘Where _are_ all the kids?’

‘They’re at home, all of them. Not really allowed out, and not allowed to see each other.’ 

‘Who’s going to interview?’ 

‘Marilyn, I want you to go,’ said Boardman. 

‘In that case, I shall not take Percival.’ 

Boardman’s eyebrows peaked. ‘Oh?’

‘He showed a disturbingly stereotypical view with two of the children. Unfounded premonition is the worst way to warp a case. It disrupts your entire world view and throws any observation to the wind. Prejudice is the best way to blind oneself.’ 

‘Perhaps, Marilyn,’ said Boardman impatiently. Not being an especially philosophical man, he was not especially impressed by metaphysical discussions of that sort. ‘But Percival’s a good detective –‘ 

‘I shan’t think he is as good at James for this sort of work,’ said Marilyn complacently. ‘Is this not James’ specialty? Not to mention Percival may offend one of the suspects.’ 

‘It’s not like Percival, to make remarks like that,’ said James feebly.

‘Perhaps,’ said Marilyn, ‘but he made them all the same.’

‘I’ll do some research on Daniel Green, perhaps,’ Percival suggested. He seemed keen to let the debate slide and looked pleadingly at Boardman. ‘No good going if she doesn’t want me there anyway. A fractured team gets no results.’ Boardman did not look pleased, but he consented to the order. 

Marilyn picked up her notepad and left, cogs grinding behind her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and sorry for the late updates! Please leave a comment down below if you can. It would be great to get my first!


	11. Softness and Edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Velvet comes to a precarious but there recovery. Angel has a decision to make regarding his mother. The Murder Club finalize their plans for the fashion show. Andrea and Sophie are in danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting a good precedent for the second half of the story by updating on time! Do you guys think you know who it was yet?
> 
> TW: family angst, kissing, unrequited love, child abuse, C O L O U R I S M, physical violence, a knife is taken out but not used

It was twelve noon the next morning when Arianne finally made the decision to let go of her rage. She’d lived in some sort of vehement, vengeful triumph throughout the night, knowing of the agony of her newfound nemesis, and then had been immediately ashamed as soon as she thought of it the next day. Two boys in her living room, who might have guessed her motives for silence on the matter with Samaira, young and impressionable. It was her duty to be a good parent. To bring up a boy who was a good and kind citizen, a boy who would prove them all wrong.

A boy who would prove _him_ wrong.

‘You’ll – you’ll tell me what she says?’ Angel asked again. He looked so young, without his makeup, curled into Hugo’s side. He was wearing one of Hugo’s jumpers, something that Arianne found rather sweet, and his eyelashes were longer and thicker with tears. She had always had a softness for Angel, because she saw him with Hugo and with Hugo he was gentler than with most, but she wasn't sure that anyone had really appreciated Angel in all his fragility before.

‘Everything,’ she said gently. ‘Exactly as she said it.’

Angel nodded and bit his lip. ‘What if – what if she says she hates me and doesn’t care how I am?’

Arianne thought of Samaira; weak, petty, old-fashioned, jealous - but not cruel and not evil. 

‘I don’t think she will,’ she said honestly. 

Angel wrapped his arms around his knees. 

‘If I'm wrong and she does, Angel,' she said gently, 'that doesn’t change your worth or value as a person. But it would say a lot about hers.

‘No,’ said Angel. His lip wobbled. ‘I want my mum.’ 

‘I know, darling, I know.’ She wrapped arms around him and Angel breathed in a scent of perfume and coconut hair conditioner and paint. He remembered how happy he’d been when she referred to him as his son. Now it was sweet, but starkly wrong. He loved her. But she was not his mother.

Little did he know, but Arianne was thinking just what he was. She regretted saying that he was her son, now. She hadn’t raised this worldly, passionate, vulnerable, razor-sharp, snarky, loving, ambitious, desperate boy; she’d raised a caring one, a mellow one, a kind one, and that was a thing to be proud of, but she could not take credit for Angel’s strength nor his weakness.

Samaira was the one who had nurtured this boy. She had done it with prejudice and blindness and poor judgement in many places, but Arianne did not believe that she had done it without love. 

‘I’ll call her now, sweetheart.’ 

Samaira picked up the phone almost instantly. Arianne had guessed correctly when she had imagined her watching it all last night, waiting for Angel to ring, and now bruises of exhaustion were stamped beneath her eyes and fear throbbed inside her like a headache. There was a part that knew that it was Arianne’s car –that Arianne wouldn’t abandon her child –that Angel would be fine – but there was a part that had images of Angel, curled up, shivering on a street corner and drenched by the rain-

Why did it have to rain that night? All night it had taunted her, tapping wet cold fingertips on her window, mocking her with images of Angel, soaked through and shaking, believing he had no home to go to, and each one had produced tears that would have rivalled the rain.

She was disappointed to not see Angel’s name, for lack of a stronger word, but when she had seen Arianne, there had been an absurd leap in her stomach, of joy or apprehension she did not know, because this woman must have _seen_ him, at least-

‘Samaira.’ The other woman’s voice was cool, but she thought she detected a hint of pity in it. ‘I thought you might like to know that Angel is safe.’

‘He – he spent the night with you?’ 

‘Of course. I would never turn a vulnerable young boy onto the streets.’ Her voice was sharp now, and Samaira flinched away from this paragon of a woman’s judgement. 

‘So you’re his new mother. My perfect replacement.’ Her voice was bitter, but broken too. 

‘I can be as perfect as I wish, but never that,’ said Arianne, who was no longer sounding pitiful, but resigned. ‘Unfortunately for your son, you are his mother. Angel, dear, do you want to speak to your mother? You can say no.’ 

‘I – I want to speak to her,’ he whispered, and his voice wavered. Samaira's ears strained but his voice was so quiet she caught none of it. She was taken off guard when he answered the phone.

‘Mummy?’ he asked softly. Samaira choked back a sob. He hadn’t called her that since he was a child.

‘Angel, sweetie, I want you – I want you to come home. We all do.’

‘I want to come home too,’ he whispered. 

Samaira breathed in relief. ‘Alright, darling. I’ll come pick you up-‘

‘Not now.’ His voice cracked.

She stopped abruptly. Tears were rolling down Angel’s face, but his eyes were bold and immovable. They gleamed like hazel stardust. 

‘I’ve – I’ve got to learn how to be independent from you.’ 

‘No – Angel, no, you have to be dependent _on_ me. I’m your mother.’   
‘If I can’t count on that, I can’t count on you. I’m not – I’m not going to put myself in this position again.’ His breath was shuddering, but his eyes were defiant. Arianne watched the boy with golden eyes and felt something like relief. However young and sweet he looked, this was a boy she did not need to worry about.

He was a beautiful spear, a bejewelled sword; a dagger as deadly and lovely as a forest fire. So sensitive, but not stupid. A parent raises a child equipped to deal with them. 

‘You _won’t_ be in it, Angel, I promise. Never again. Tonight – tonight has been hell for me.’ Samaira was crying, and Angel was trying to pretend he wasn’t, and both Arianne and Hugo were dabbing at rolling tears and clinging to each other in gorgeous relief.

‘I can’t count on your promises,’ said Angel quietly, and then his voice broke down and she could hear it. Her breath caught but he did not stop speaking. ‘I’m – I’m going to stay with Arianne and Hugo for a while, if that’s okay but – but if it isn’t I’ll find somewhere else-‘

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Angel. You’ll stay as long as you need,’ said Arianne. Her voice was stern. 

‘Arianne! Arianne! Angel – give the phone to Hugo’s mother.’ Angel reluctantly gave the mobile to her.

‘Samaira, it’s Ari-‘ She was interrupted immediately. Samaira sounded like she had been driven half mad.

‘I want my child. You can’t do this. I’ll call the police.’ 

Arianne laughed coldly. ‘You want the police to force him into your home and hold him there against his will? Don’t you think this is why he needs time away from you?’ She allowed her voice to soften a little. 'Give Angel time. You know what you did. A night needs weeks to heal.'

Samaira tried to argue with her, say something, but her brain had turned to cotton and love. She’d been whittled down to her baser instincts, the motherly love that competition and fear and ignorance had managed to hide. ‘But he’s – he’s _my_ brave boy. He’s my baby, my angel. You can’t take him away from me.’

‘Nobody took him, Samaira,’ said Arianne steadily. ‘You pushed him away, and he’s staying there until he thinks he’s strong enough to withstand that push again. He’ll come back. I don’t think you have to worry about him leaving forever.’

‘It won’t happen again, don’t you understand? It _won’t_.’ She was vicious and fearful and ready to fight, but there was no argument there to push. 

‘There are different ways to damage a child, Samaira,’ said Arianne, and for the first time she raised her voice. ‘Children are not construction frames. They can’t be built upon how you want. They’re houses already, and it’s your choice if you want to expand and repair it, or knock it down. Go. Educate your family. Educate yourself. Find out about what Angel is going through. Figure out what you’re going to do. Because if you think you raised the kind of son who’s going to accept a scene like last night again, you know even less about him than I thought.’ She hung up, and then breathed out.

‘Boys, you’re welcome to hide in the living room and watch TV all day if you must, but do try and do some of your schoolwork.’ Her tone was determinedly motherly.

‘We’re going out for the club,’ said Hugo. A weird tone was always set by the use of the group’s real name. His mother now understood the euphemism perfectly. 

Arianne smiled. ‘Of course. Angel, sweetie, I’m really proud of you for making this opportunity. How far are you in planning?’

‘We're almost done,' Angel offered.

She squealed excitedly, miles away from the furious warrior mother that had screamed at Samaira down the phone. ‘Oh, I can’t wait! Anyway, boys, I’ve got to go in and paint for a little while. Are you getting lunch out?’

After Hugo explained that they were indeed getting lunch out, she handed them ample sums of money and bid them farewell until dinnertime, reminding them that she would be in her art-room if needed. 

Things were remarkably simple in this house. It wasn’t home, but it was refreshing.

A break.

Just what Angel needed.

*

Velvet had been painting all night. 

Whenever she was angry or sad or bitter and had no outlet for her emotions, she painted. She had fallen asleep still in her artist’s chair, clutching a paintbrush in one hand, with her back knotted and sore. She would have been inclined to be furious if she hadn’t finally finished the painting she’d been working on for months.

It began with the indestructible Caeneus, clenching his sword in his warrior’s fist, finally blessed by Poseidon and granted a man’s body, his body gleaming with ethereal light to show the godly blessing he had been granted and the impenetrability of his skin. After Caeneus came a Roman cinaedus, facing adversity but not destroyed by it, eyes fiery and strong in their soldier’s uniform. From there she had depicted a Viking ergi, mocked by some but a warrior despite it, standing tall and strong in the midst of hate, clutching a battleaxe in one hand; and then, in paradox, We’wha, revered and admired instead of scorned and shunned for her unconventional gender identity in the Native American community. Magnus Hirschfeld reading a newspaper in Germany in 1910, not for any particular reason but for then being the year in which he coined the term ‘transsexual’ – and him again, nine years later, opening the Institute for Sexual Science in Berlin. At this point the painting smoothed out into the first ever gender symposium in 1969, but soon came out again to some of her favourite, more recent individuals. It then turned into a self portrait; it was her as she had been last night, face smudged with tears and eye makeup, hair as messy as always, and the glass had tore bloody rents in her arms, but her eyes were fire. Her stance was just as strong as Caeneus’. 

Velvet was a warrior of a new age, not as iconic as any of the human rights pioneers she had painted but, as her portrait stared out, she smiled. 

Because Velvet was not sad anymore. She was angry. And as long as she remained furious – not sad, and not tired, and not passive – Velvet could be sure of progress.

*

‘Who are you?’ The boy didn’t look like he particularly cared either way. Cameron could see something of Sophie in the boy standing in front of him, in the curves and lines of his features, but there was too much bullishness, arrogance in his tone to be likened to her. 

‘I’m Cameron,’ he said shortly. ‘Did Sophie tell you I was coming?’ 

The brother’s lip curled. 

‘Why she’s all dressed up in her fancy dress, huh?’ 

Sophie blushed as she came up behind him. ‘Hi,’ she offered timidly. Jerome laughed mockingly. She stepped back.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You ready to go?’ 

‘Yeah, I’ll just grab my bag.’

Jerome shook his head. It was more of an irritable little jerk than anything, but it rooted Sophie to the spot. Cameron’s jaw tightened.

‘Where are you going?’ Jerome asked flatly. 

‘School project,’ said Cameron. 

‘With just the two of you, huh?’ Jerome laughed, but there was no humour in it. There was harshness, and cynicism. It rankled. 

‘No, we’re meeting the rest of our group,’ said Cameron calmly. ‘My sister’s in the car waiting. Could we leave?’ Jerome’s expression changed. Perhaps he was used to Sophie, who was so timid that this brash boy would easily back her into a corner of her own fear, and wasn’t used to responses of calmness to his anger in his home. 

Cameron thought it was a lesson well learned. 

Jerome kissed his teeth. ‘You better be home to make my lunch.’ 

‘Okay,’ Sophie said. The way her eyes caught his warned Cameron not to push it on her behalf. 

‘See you,’ said Jerome mockingly. He slammed the door shut, almost catching Sophie’s wrist. She did not protest.

Mali’s lips were thin. She barely said a word to Cameron in the car. 

‘Sorry,’ Cameron mumbled at last, as the doors opened. Sophie blinked in confusion, but stood away in anticipation of any sort of tragic familial reconciliation. There was nothing of the sort. Mali looked uninterested.

‘Thank you.’ 

They did not speak again. 

*

The meetings were conventional and in the most part would have been dull, had they not been so sporadic and in the very spirit of rebellion. The late-night dumpster dive and the hushed retellings of Angel’s departure from his mother had made the whole situation seem rather glamorous to the group, and in any case had invoked a large amount of sympathy on Angel’s behalf. Despite the genuine interest of the club towards their endeavour, there was still a general feeling of approval that this was to be the last organisational meeting.

All in all, for an ultimate gathering it was rather dull, made up only of the presentation of paperwork that clarified all the details to Scarlet. Scarlet was rather like a severe teacher, and expected results, so it was something of a fearful experience if you were the sort that worried that you had not done as much as the rest. It was done, as everything was with Scarlet, very efficiently, and finished in reasonable time. The set date was the next week, and everyone, including Angel, was confident that it would, at least, not be a complete failure.

The meeting packed up quickly. Sophie left at once, a distressed Cameron following her, and an extremely unimpressed looking Mali tailing after them both. Scarlet disposed of the empty Hobnobs packet, packed away her humbugs and left with the judgemental and excessively organized manner of an over-zealous schoolteacher, leaving Angel, Velvet and Hugo still sitting at the table.

‘We should get lunch,’ Hugo said brightly. 

‘What, with me?’ asked Velvet, their tone somewhat waspish. 

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course with you,’ said Angel impatiently. 

‘You two are a couple now,’ said Velvet, somewhat sullenly. ‘That’s a fair inference to make.’

Angel pouted. Hugo put a hand on his arm. Angel looked a mixture of sultry and persuasive when he pouted. Explosive didn't come up at all, but that face it was the most accurate description of his current mood. Hugo was rather glad that he and Angel never really blew up with one another. Velvet had also seen Angel in that state, but didn’t appear to be especially afraid. Neither of them ever really were.

‘What’s _wrong_ with you?’ he snapped.

‘I just – look, I’ll get over it in my own time, okay?’ 

‘Get over _what_?’ asked Angel hotly. 

Velvet put down her latte. She stormed towards Angel as if she was going to knock him over; Angel, to his credit, remained stolid and scowling, despite Hugo’s tugs on his arm. However much he scowled, Angel was around 5’5 and in stilettos, and bravado wouldn’t see him through much if he got punched. 

Luckily for him, Velvet did not punch him. She kissed him, the sort of pent-up kiss that is symbolic of unrequited love; a kiss of passion and fury and attachment and anger. When she pulled back, her face was teary, but obstinate. 

Angel’s eyes were wide. Hugo’s were downcast. 

‘If – if...’ his voice was timid. ‘If you two want to...’ 

They both turned to him as if surprised that Hugo, of everyone, had interrupted the temporary joining of such passionate souls.

He restarted.

‘If you like Velvet and not me-‘

The gold in Angel's eyes burst into flame and he kissed Hugo, spontaneously and fiercely as Velvet had kissed him, but tender, too – somehow conveying all the softness to Angel’s edges. Angel was well practised in the art of communicating his feelings through a kiss and thought this particular one to be an expression of love. It did not occur to him, blunt and insensitive as he could be, that that kiss could be cruel. 

When he saw Velvet’s face, however, he knew. He looked a little ashamed. 

‘Velvet – I - I didn’t mean for that to be about you.’ 

Velvet laughed, bitter and cruel. ‘I didn’t expect it to be. Nothing’s about me – it’s all about him, right?’ Her eyes were sharp. Hugo blanched.

Angel scowled. ‘I love Hugo,’ he said simply. Some people would have said that it was too quick, that he was too young, but Velvet fell in love hard and fast and was well accustomed to this in others. She simply stared. ‘I love you, too, but - but in a different way. I love being around you – but I don’t want to be with you, not like that. Don’t leave me. Just be with me – just be with me the way we were together before.’

Velvet breathed in, then breathed out. ‘You can handle me leaving, surely. I don’t make much of a difference. You’ve got loads of friends – and I know your family aren’t great but they’re a hell of a load better than mine-‘ 

Angel’s shoulders stiffened. Then; ‘they kicked me out.’ 

Velvet stopped all at once. 

‘What?’   
‘They found out – about me – and Hugo – it was only for a night, but – but ...’ And that was it. Angel's eyes started running into tears. Hugo, having seen a lot of these outbursts since Angel had come to his, immediately wrapped his arms around him. Velvet blinked, but, after a nod of encouragement from Hugo, wrapped her arms around him in an awkward sort of hug too. 

‘They kicked you out for a _night_?’ she asked bluntly, once they had disentangled. Hugo winced but Angel smiled, accustomed to Velvet's blank honesty.

‘Well I think they meant it for real at first – but – but ...’ Angel dissolved into momentary tears once again and burrowed into Hugo’s jumper. Hugo kissed his forehead. 

It was unbearably sweet. Velvet swallowed the sickliness and wrapped her arms around him again. 

‘Do you want to go home?’ Hugo murmured. ‘I can call Mum. She’ll come.’ 

Angel’s lip was quivering again, but he shook his head. ‘I’m fine,’ he whispered.

‘Sorry for ...’ Velvet began, but Angel shook his head and hugged her again. She looked very surprised. 

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘For being my friend.’ 

Velvet swallowed again, and took it. She found herself smiling. 

You shouldn't begrudge getting rich in silver because you could have gotten rich in gold. And there were other angels in the world, anyway.

*

‘You _really_ think I haven’t got any other offers? You _really_ think so? You think your broke ass is the _best_ I can do?’ Sophie awoke with a start, her body as always conditioned to wake at the slightest shout, but this wasn’t Jerome’s voice. Her brain attempted to understand what was going on with little success. 

She had come home, and made Jerome his lunch. He had then snarled that she should go to her room, and she had done so. The crying from last night had made her head ache and her eyes bleary, and eventually she had simply gone to sleep.

But no, this wasn’t Jerome shouting – it was a female voice, one that she recognized. Sophie blinked. Why had Jerome sent her up? Because he had someone coming over – one of his friends; his girlfriends? 

Of course – Andrea. 

This led her to a new train of thought, which was precisely as to why Andrea, the beloved girlfriend, was screaming at Jerome. 

She did not dare go downstairs, but listened. She couldn't help it; they were screaming. She closed her eyes in terror at the thought of Jerome's impending upset and rage and frustration.

Andrea had not mentioned much of importance, but there were enough cuss words and various suggestions of sharp objects that Jerome could stick into certain places to gather that she was generally feeling very angry. Sophie wondered what Jerome could possibly have done, and then dismissed the question. Knowing Jerome, a lot. 

‘Would you just shut up?’ Jerome roared, and Sophie flinched despite her flimsy safety behind the door. ‘You’re fine,’ he spat. ‘Absolutely –‘ and he swore – ‘fine.’

‘Fine? Look at me, Jerome!’ 

‘You’re such a pussy – Sophia’s had worse than that from me and even she don’t complain as much as you!’ 

‘Then Sophia’s gonna get hauled out of here by Social Services, isn’t she?’ 

‘Social Services my ass – she’s sixteen in two months.’ 

‘So the police, is that you want? What you trying to play anyway? Social Services isn’t cut off completely soon as she leaves the home. I don’t know why they let her go so early anyway –‘

‘Because I’m her brother, and I look after her. Now why are you throwing a hissy fit because I look after you?’

‘ _Look after me_? I don’t need looking after – at least I didn’t until _you_ turned into an abusive–‘ 

Jerome laughed. ‘Abusive? I _slapped_ you! Once!’ 

‘Look at me, Jerome! _Look at me_!’ 

Jerome’s voice turned mockingly cruel. ‘You’re just a lot less pretty. Nothing a month won’t fix, and then I’ll have a sexy girl again.’

‘You want a sexy girl, you can find one and pick her up,’ Andrea snapped. 'I'm done here.'

Jerome snarled. ‘Oh, yeah? You really think you can do better than me?’

‘ _Every_ woman can do better than you!’

The slap echoed. It was eerily similar to the slaps Sophie was used to hearing and it felt odd that the pain was not her own. Tears wet her eyes.

Andrea screamed and then there was a crack. Sophie heard Jerome bellow in something that sounded a lot like pain. 

‘God – crazy _bitch_ –‘ There was a fierce bump and another scream. ‘You’ve got to learn–‘ 

Andrea screamed again and there was another crack. 

‘Put that down,’ Jerome snarled, but there was a bit of fear in his voice. ‘Put it down!’ Sophie hadn’t seen a scared Jerome since her mother died, but she knew he was ultimately more dangerous scared than he was in control. She didn’t know what he would do. 

A few seconds later, Andrea screamed. There were more cracks – more of Jerome shouting; Andrea was stronger than Sophie, but Sophie didn’t know many people stronger than Jerome. She didn’t know what he was hitting him with – whatever it was seemed to be hefty enough to deter him, but not for long. Andrea appeared to know it too. It was a panicked phone call.

‘999! It’s an emergency – my boyfriend –‘ Andrea screamed again. 

‘Shut up! Give me the –‘ there was another crack and Jerome swore again. ‘Give me the phone, bitch!’

’49 Creswell Avenue – hurry, hurry please – there’s another girl in the house – I think he’s been abusing her –‘ 

Jerome snarled and then went for her. There was another scream, more cracks – Andrea crying into the phone. ‘Help me, God – please! Jerome – get off me – get off –‘   
Sophie was shaking, quiet; but soft, choked sobs escaping. 

‘Turn – the phone – off!’

‘What good will that do, do you think?' Andrea spat back. Sophie winced for her. Did she just not realize that he could easily kill her before anyone got here? It would be a miracle if they even showed up. 'They’ve got your address!’ 

_‘They’ll get your address –‘_

Sophie shuddered at the memory. The words had been a sort of nightmarish nostalgia to her. She did not know how Jerome would react.

There was a thump. Sophie shuddered, but moments later she heard Andrea’s shaky, quiet voice.

_He must have let her go._

‘What the hell? Why’d you do this?’ It was Jerome. He sounded tired, defeated. 

‘You _slapped_ me. God knows what you’ve been doing to that poor girl. And you just came at me with a _knife_ , Jerome!’ Andrea sounded like she was crying. 

‘I wouldn’t have _killed_ you,’ Jerome muttered. 

‘Oh, aren’t you sweet.’ Andrea looked somewhat wary of Jerome’s current, passive mood. She didn’t turn away from him as she backed out of the room, not until she reached the stairs, which she scampered up quickly as possible. 

‘Sophie – Sophie – are you there?’ Andrea opened the door. Her face softened at the sight of Sophie, crouching and pathetic on her bed. 

‘Come on, sweetie, we’ve got to get you out of here.’ 

‘We can’t go downstairs,’ said Sophie, voice very slow as if talking to a child, but still thick with tears. ‘not with Jerome there.’ 

Andrea blinked as if this had just occurred to her. ‘Right – right. But he seemed okay – not okay, I mean, but he let me go.’ 

Sophie shook her head frantically. ‘You said something that sounded like what our mother used to say. It knocked him off track, but I don’t know how long it will last, he hasn’t had a relapse like this in years. If we go down there I don’t know if he’ll still be all spacey, or if he’ll see us, or-‘

Andrea digested this information remarkably quickly. ‘Okay, you’re the boss. How do we get out then? Your window?’ 

‘My _window_? We’re on the eighteenth floor!’ 

‘Could you go down the drainpipe?’

Sophie looked at her in disbelief. ‘No! This isn’t a movie, Andrea!’ 

‘Okay – what about we stay in here, and if necessary we go out onto the window sill?’ 

‘The window sill? Andrea!’

‘Well, the police can’t miss us from up there, can they? I called them.’

‘Yeah, I heard.’ Sophie paused. ‘What were you hitting him with?’

‘A lamp. I don’t think it hurt him all that much, but it stopped him getting too close. I wish I was stronger. I could have knocked him out.’ Andrea brought down her wrist in a chopping motion, then looked curious. ‘What did – what did I say?’ 

*

‘ _Bath time …’ Janet White held a bottle of soap in one hand, and a bottle of bleach in the other. Jerome backed away._

 _‘Other children bath in just water,' he said. Sophie looked up curiously. She wondered where Jerome had learnt that._

_Janet tutted and held up her wrist, beckoning her children towards her. Both of them knew what to do._

_Mummy placed her ivory wrist on the table. She was pale, her veins starkly blue in the almost translucence of her skin. ‘Beautiful,’ she said._

_Sophie placed the caramel of her own wrist next to her. ‘Uglier,’ she said. She knew the drill, but not its meaning, at barely three years old. All Sophie understood was that white was good and black was bad._

_She had no idea of those implications yet._

_Jerome understood, a little, at least. He glared but did not dare disobey his mother. Both he and Sophie lived in fear of Janet White’s punishments._

_‘Ugliest,’ he said at last, putting the dark brown of his own skin next to Sophie’s, lighter wrist._

_‘See,’ said Janet. ‘A bad black man made me carry his bad black children – and he made Jerome as black as him, and Sophie blacker than me. If you want to be less bad, you have to be less black.’_

_Jerome, old enough for the outside world, shook his head. ‘Being black isn’t bad.’_

_His mother’s pale eyes darkened. ‘No – no, it’s bad, very bad … very, very bad… the police know which children want to be black, Jerome … they’ll come for you at night … they’ll put you in jail … or they’ll shoot you on the spot. Don’t you know? The police have your name … the police have your school … the police have your address …’_

_'The police have your name,' Sophie and Jerome dutifully repeated. 'The police have your school ... the police have your address...'_

*

Janet had committed suicide when Jerome was eleven and Sophie was eight. Sophie learned, later on, that her father had not been a bad man and that Janet had willingly had his children at the time. As she grew increasingly disturbed, they had grown increasingly apart, and then the relationship had gone from unhealthy to abusive. Eventually he had lived in as much fear of the sadistic woman as her children had. 

He had not had the courage to take Jerome and Sophie with him when he fled, and had not wanted to see them again. Social Services had attempted contact. He hadn’t wanted to hear about it.

He had a new wife, and new kids, now. 

It had taken Sophie a long time to unlearn what her mother had taught her, imprinted in her mind as it was. There was no longer the bath time ritual, but Sophie and Jerome learnt their mother’s messages in different ways. Sophie had spent her childhood being complimented by other black girls on the paleness of her skin in comparison to theirs, had seen people rushing to sit in the shade in fear of darkening, living in ludicrous shame after being referred to as ‘blick’; had heard the way people mocked girls with naturally kinky hair, how they had professed longing for Sophie’s long, loose curls. Jerome had spent his life living in fear of hoodies and loud music and going alone to a police car, had spent a period of his life wearing suits on Saturdays and talking in a pretentious put on voice so that he was ‘white’ as he could be. 

The world had taught them, in other ways, that black meant bad. 

Eventually Sophie had stopped hearing the ‘compliments’ as compliments, and Jerome had thrown away his suits and started talking how he liked. Sophie understood that girls like her could be beautiful, but had stopped seeing beauty as a competition in which the darker girls would always finish last, and was glad of it.

As for Jerome, she was unsure. He had learnt violence, and sadism, and cruelty and abuse from his mother. She was not sure if he had taken in the rest as well. She knew he disliked the idea of a black man in a suit, not because he thought it was always a façade he put on in an attempt to be better accepted, but because it reminded him of his old self.  
Jerome refused to talk of his mother. The only place Sophie could be sure that Jerome would not find her was church, because their mother used to take them. Even Sophie could not bring herself to that same, ghastly building of memories, but she went to another one, one Jerome would never set foot in like every other. It was her safe haven every Sunday.

‘Hey, Sophie.’ It was Andrea, staring intently, brow furrowed. ‘I asked –‘ 

‘I know,’ said Sophie quietly. ‘Our mum – she wasn’t – she wasn’t great. I –‘ she swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I don’t really like talking about her.’ 

Andrea nodded. ‘Alright. Look, Jerome’s going to come up eventually – you’ve got a wardrobe – and a desk – you’ve got to help me lift it.’ 

‘Lift it?’ 

‘So he can’t get in,’ said Andrea in exasperation.

‘We’re going to have to come out.’ 

‘Not by the time the police get here,’ Andrea argued. ‘Come on, grab the table!’ 

Sophie thought of boy Jerome, timid and cowering in fear that the police would have his address, and felt a sudden surge of pity. 

And then she remembered adult Jerome, and grabbed the desk and lifted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Somebody be my first commenter?


	12. A Cotillion Against Normalcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arianne throws the Acharya household into disarray. Mali and Cameron come to an understanding. Andrea and Sophie are disappointed but unsurprised by the police department.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: police inaction, catcalling referenced

Cameron and Mali were eating breakfast. Aunt Clare was too, typing on her phone with glossy nails and biting at a cereal bar. 

Cameron checked his messages. 

‘You shouldn’t use your phone at the table, Cameron,’ said Aunt Clare distractedly. Cameron stared at her. 

‘Well, you shouldn’t,’ she said crossly. ‘Mine’s for work.’ Cameron rolled his eyes as he put it away. 

‘Have a good day at school, dears,’ she said absent mindedly. 

‘You’ve been studying more,’ said Mali, once she had left. The two of them never really talked to one another when Aunt Clare was around. 

Cameron shrugged. ‘Basketball tryouts are in a month. My predicted grades have gone up in almost everything – if I just get my English and Chemistry grades up –‘ 

Mali nodded seriously. ‘You’ve done well. Maybe,’ she continued, ‘you should ask the club to help you. They did well planning Angel’s show.’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Cameron, ‘I think that’s going to be great.’

Mali changed the subject rather abruptly. ‘I like Sophie.’ 

Cameron looked up in surprise.

‘She’s stronger than I thought. Mature. And sensible. I think she’s good for you.’

A smile broke Cameron’s features. ‘You – you do?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mali shortly, clearly embarrassed at what had already been said between them. Cameron took the hint but a grin split his face, a glaring white crescent moon.

They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence until they got up; and then, Mali surprised her brother with a sudden hug. 

Cameron returned it.

*

‘Mr Acharya, do you really think that clothing is appropriate for Physical Education?’  
‘I’m not doing PE,’ said Angel stoutly. ‘I hurt my leg.’ 

His PE teacher stared down in exasperation. ‘Do you think, Mr Acharya, that that is possibly due to your consistently doing Physical Education in inappropriate footwear? Somewhere in your abundant shoe collection, is there not a pair of trainers?’ 

‘Not a pair that matches this top.’ 

Hugo stifled a smile. Their PE teacher was the sort of militant, drastically controlling and ball-happy man that was best designed to rub Angel up the wrong way – and, as such, he never had an easy time in these classes. Most PE teachers gave up on trying to get Angel to participate in the more active parts of their class. Mr Richards, on the other hand, was not prepared to give up the fight – and thus, chaos ensued. 

‘I really think you’re being an irresponsible teacher, sir,’ Angel was now saying. ‘Not only are you forcing an injured student to participate in a very possibly dangerous exercise, but you’re so occupied with that that you’re completely neglecting the rest of the class.’ 

Mr Richards glowered. ‘Because you’re doing something whether you like it or not. If you’re adamant that you won’t do the work you’re meant to be doing in class-'  
‘The class divides so there’d have to be a three if I joined in, anyway, sir.’ 

‘Don’t interrupt me. You can hand out the tennis balls. And I will be reporting your consistent idleness to a senior member of staff.’

Angel scowled, but accepted the compromise and took the tennis balls. It wasn’t safe to do PE in heels anyway, and he didn’t have trainers. 

Mr Richards muttered something about non-uniform schools being the worst idea since tax. 

*

‘I’ve just had a call from Angel’s school,’ Samaira announced. She sounded absent-minded and tearful. ‘That woman’s not looking after him.’ 

Vihaan’s face twisted. He had not taken Angel’s decision to remain at Arianne’s at all well.

‘Of course she’s not,’ he snapped. 

‘Is Angel coming home?’ Riya asked worriedly. 

‘They didn't say anything about that – I am glad he hasn't said anything - but they asked if something had recently gone on at home. Apparently he’s been unbalanced all week and he's just been very disrespectful to his PE teacher.’ 

Grandmother spat on to the ground. ‘Of course he’s unbalanced. All that boyfriend-boyfriend nonsense.’ 

Samaira sniffed. ‘She said he’s been upset all week and keeps crying – that he’s been uncooperative in lessons – he refuses to go anywhere without that boy.’ 

Vihaan’s face darkened. ‘The woman’s boy?’

Samaira nodded frantically. ‘He won’t even go into classes without him in them. The teachers say they might be able to change his schedule a little, but…’ 

‘No,’ Vihaan said at once. ‘He won’t get anything out of them coddling him.’ 

Samaira nodded again and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I said – I said that he was going through something difficult and if they could be lenient for just a little while, but not to make any permanent changes.’ 

Grandmother made a loud, indignant noise. ‘Leniency? He doesn’t need leniency! It’s about time you put in boundaries for that boy. None of this would have happened if you gave him structure early. His friends are a bad influence. You should have stopped him seeing them.’ She took a long, large judgemental sip of her drink and then continued. Nobody interrupted her. Grandmother was never interrupted when she was talking like this. ‘His classes – you let him take stupid things in school, and now he has no future. Textiles – Dance – what’s he going to do? You need to talk to him strictly. Strutting around the house dressed like a female prostitute. It’s no wonder this happened.’ 

Prisha coughed to cut in. ‘Whether or not you approve of Samaira’s parenting methods, I do agree with what she said to the school.’ Grandmother’s eyes flashed, but Prisha commanded her own sort of respect in a strange way. She at least earned the right to be listened to before she was shut down. 

‘Angel has been through a very difficult time and he’s completely changed homes. He’s also attempting to severe some of his familial bonds,’ Aunt Prisha began. 

Grandmother snorted. ‘It’s this ridiculous psychology you took. He isn’t attempting to severe anything.’

Aunt Prisha did not look impressed. ‘After the debacle in which he was removed from the home, Angel’s feelings were hurt and he reacted as he thought necessary. He kept away from the family, and now he’s doing his best to repress his urge to reach out to us for support. It’s a very natural reaction. He’s trying to stop himself from being hurt again – but Angel is naturally loving. It’s difficult for him. It’s probably what’s causing all this upset.’ 

Vihaan grunted. ‘Of course he’s loving. That’s what made this so easy. That boy, his mother, that other friend with the red hair. He gets attached too easily, and now he’s gone. We never had problems like this with Hiran and Jayesh.’ 

‘Angel is different to Hiran and Jayesh,’ said Samaira. Her voice was steady, but her tone had a hint of anger to it. 

Riya nodded. ‘Daddy, Angel used to try on my clothes and draw fashion designs when he was six years old. He used to play with my old Barbie dolls and practise with my makeup. He’s always been different.’ 

‘That’s what you should have nipped in the bud,’ Grandmother crowed. ‘If you had done that, you wouldn’t have this boyfriend problem to deal with now.’

Riya’s eyes were indignant. ‘Grandmother, the two aren’t linked I don’t think. Even if – even if he comes to the conclusion that he isn’t attracted to boys-‘

Vihaan glared. ‘Even when,’ he said flatly. 

Riya swallowed. ‘I don’t think – I don’t think it’s simple as that – but – what I’m trying to say, I don’t think that if he decides he’s just interested in girls, his interest in fashion will stop. They’re just not related. It’s just a stereotype that Angel happened to follow. It’s coincidental.’ 

‘Fashion,’ said Grandmother, scathingly. ‘He won’t get anywhere with it.’ 

‘He’s talented,’ said Riya. Her tone was surer than it had been before. The room stirred slightly. Such certainty was rare as of late.

‘No, Riya, you’re talented. Good grades, time management – you never went out to parties or dated or any of that nonsense. You did a lot to get your job there,’ said Samaira firmly. ‘That’s what talent is.’ 

‘That’s not talent, Mummy, that’s hard work,’ said Riya softly. ‘What Angel has it’s – it’s passion, and it’s love – and he’s so, so good at it. When you look at the things he makes, you’re shocked. He’s brilliant. I work hard for the benefits. Angel works hard because he loves it. It’s a gift. I think we should support him.’ 

‘Some bloody gift,’ said Hiran. ‘When he grows up he’ll be in debt, all those fancy clothes. There was a pair of shoes that still had the price tag on them when we threw them away - £135!’ 

There was a general round of admonishments and inquiries as to how Angel could possibly afford shoes that were a hundred-and-thirty-five pounds. 

‘All the same, you shouldn’t have thrown them away if they were that expensive,’ said Aunt Prisha. ‘It’s a waste.’

‘They were pink high heels with little bows on them,’ said Hiran. ‘What were we supposed to do?’

‘You ought to be careful about where he’s getting the money,’ Uncle Sahil said. ‘He could be selling drugs or something.’ 

Samaira looked alarmed, Riya outraged.

‘Of course he’s not selling drugs!’ she snapped. 

‘Well, how does he afford it?’ asked Tanseem softly, flipping her hair out of her face. ‘If all my shoes cost that much shoes were the only thing I’d own. And Angel has a lot more than me.’ 

‘He has money,’ said Riya obstinately. ‘And he makes a lot of his clothes, or buys cheap ones and makes them look expensive by himself. And he sells some clothes online, too, and makes money off them.’

Vihaan stirred. ‘How much money?’ 

Riya shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it’s quite a lot, especially for his age. He doesn’t sell much but what he does put online always gets bought in the end. The things he makes are absolutely lovely. They look shop-bought.’ 

‘Nonsense,’ said Grandmother. Her face was twisted.

‘Do you remember that blue dress I told you I got from Dorothy Perkins?’ 

Samaira looked up. ‘Angel didn’t make that,’ she said disbelievingly.

Riya nodded. ‘From scratch, too,’ she said. ‘He bought the material himself and marked it all out and did it with the sewing machine for my birthday.’ 

‘You should never have bought him the bloody thing,’ said Grandmother moodily. She looked exceedingly disheartened at Angel’s success with the sewing machine.

‘I thought he’d grow out of it,’ said Samaira. ‘And he wanted it so badly … and anyway, it was cheaper than all Jayesh’s Xbox DS things. But,’ she began imploringly, ‘if he’s good as Riya says, Vihaan…’ 

‘That’s enough on the boy for tonight,’ said Vihaan grimly. His face was heavy and cold. 

‘But…’ Riya began.

‘Enough, Riya!’ The shout surprised the room, but silenced it as well. 

Someone changed the subject, but the conversation petered out into nothing. The house had been awkward as of late. The subject of Angel was both forbidden and frequently ventured into territory, but each conversation was a minefield. You never knew if your particular comment would set Samaira, Vihaan or Grandmother off; even Riya and Jayesh had been particularly touchy as of late. Aunt Prisha did not go ‘touchy’ as of such. She was not an emotional woman, but when she wanted to say something, it was said, and she was saying an awful lot lately.

However, as of now, nobody was saying anything at all. 

They ate dinner in silence. The ring of the doorbell startled, the guest even more. Arianne was dressed in a fuchsia peacoat. Her hair was bundled on top of her head. Her eyes spoke business. 

‘Hello – Jayesh, is it? May I come in?’ The ‘may’ appeared to be out of politeness rather than anything else. Her intention was clear. 

Jayesh communicated his assent with an incoherent mumble. Samaira’s expression was stony, Vihaan’s furious.

Aunt Prisha rose when Arianne came in. ‘A cup of tea?’ she asked. Her tone was very like Arianne’s. It suggested that the hypothetical cup of tea, if required, would not be made. 

‘No, thank you,’ said Arianne, stiffly polite. She stood upright like a doll. 

‘What do you want, Arianne?’ asked Samaira tiredly. 

Arianne’s lips were thin. ‘I want to know if you plan to prolong this painful process for my son and yours by refusing to act like a parent.’ 

‘Angel will come when he is ready,’ said Vihaan. His tone held up a STOP sign, but Arianne had clearly expected resistance. Nothing about her demeanour suggested that she was at all deterred. 

‘And he won’t be ready until he has reassurance,’ said Arianne sharply. Her tone softened at Samaira’s flinch, but only a little. ‘He’s waiting for some form of consolation.’ 

‘We’re not going over there begging on our knees like dogs,’ said Grandmother. Her lips were congealed like old milk. 

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Samaira, and her face was ashy. ‘I want him – I want him back.’ 

Grandmother opened her mouth to retort.

‘He doesn’t want you to beg,’ said Arianne, in exasperation. 

'Is that so?' asked Grandmother. She stood up, face curled in on itself. 'You can leave.'

'Certainly,' said Arianne stiffly. 'But-' She pulled a leaflet out of her handbag. ‘Angel’s doing a fashion show this Saturday evening. I thought – I thought it would be nice if maybe you came.’ 

‘A fashion show?’ repeated Vihaan wearily. 

‘It’s a huge career opportunity for him,’ said Arianne sharply, catching something in his tone. ‘It’s got an enormous amount of publicity considering this is his first show. He’s put huge amounts of effort and talent into it and this could be a fantastic platform for him and his fashion career. I thought you might want to come and support him – at least some of you.’ 

Riya took the leaflet at once. ‘Of course I’ll be there,’ she said. ‘I’d love to support Angel.’ 

Samaira was quiet, but she managed a shaky nod. Aunt Prisha put a supporting hand on her sister’s arm and declared that she’d be going as well. 

‘I’m not going to any fashion show,’ said Hiran, looking alarmed at the very thought. 

Aarav laughed. ‘It’s hardly the sort of thing I’m interested in.’ 

‘Of course,’ said Vihaan, his voice rather sharp. ‘None of you boys are going.’ 

Uncle Sahil nodded vigorously. ‘Mm. Yes – Aarav? Hiran? Jayesh?’ 

Jayesh shifted uncomfortably. 

‘Jayesh!’ said Vihaan, and his voice rose to something of a snarl. ‘What do you even plan on doing – at a fashion show?’ 

‘Jayesh should be able to come if he wishes to,’ said Aunt Prisha. 

‘He doesn’t want to! This bloody woman – she’s bullied him into it –‘ 

Arianne looked up. She did not seem in the least offended. Her expression was dry as she placed the leaflet on the table. ‘While I have not bullied anyone into anything, I’ll take this as my final cue to leave.’

She inclined her head in a polite, Edwardian little nod and marched out of the house as elegantly and stiffly as she had come, leaving it in even more chaos than it had been in. 

‘Ha!’ said Grandmother. ‘Soon all of the boys of our household will be curling their hair and powdering their noses.’ 

‘Of course not,’ said Vihaan. 

Jayesh looked somewhat cowed, but he managed to square his shoulders a little. ‘I – I want to.’ 

‘You don’t like fashion,’ said Hiran edgily. He shuffled away a little. ‘Do you?’ 

‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s not contagious,’ said Riya in annoyance. ‘I think Jayesh should go if he wants to.’ 

‘And look, now Riya is a parent,’ said Grandmother sarcastically from the corner. 

‘I’m just _saying_ –‘ Riya began. 

‘Don’t say anything! Is that difficult?’ 

‘You were all happy to listen when I was agreeing with you!’

‘You are still a child, Riya –‘ 

‘I’m a grown woman!’

‘But not Angel’s mother – nor Jayesh’s, Riya,’ Aunt Prisha was saying. Her tone was gentle, and she sounded sympathetic, but still ambivalent. ‘This isn’t your decision-‘ 

‘No,’ Jayesh burst out, ‘it’s mine!’ The room swivelled to look at him. ‘It’s a fashion show I want to go to, to learn about my brother. Why is that anything to do with you?’ 

Grandmother scoffed. ‘Learn about him? You live in a house together.’ 

‘And I still don’t know anything about him,’ said Jayesh earnestly. His honesty had Samaira flinching as if he’d punched her in the face. ‘None of us do. I want to go.’ 

One man’s rebellion can quickly become a cotillion against normalcy. Jayesh’s defiance had the overall mood caught on a hook, poised to fall in distaste of the thought of going to the show, or ready to climb in favour of Angel. 

‘You don’t _like_ fashion, Jayesh,’ Vihaan was saying.

‘It’s not about that,’ Jayesh was saying obstinately. ‘So this is a huge part of my brother’s life, and none of us except Riya even knew?’ 

‘You can’t be forced to go to this show just because Angel likes it,’ said Hiran. 

‘No-one’s forcing me, I'm saying I want to go!’ Jayesh snapped. 

‘How come you can make Angel go on a hike, but not Jayesh to a fashion show?’ Riya was arguing.

‘ _No-one’s making me_!’ 

'That's not what I meant!'

‘It’s not fair –‘

‘I’m not going –‘ 

‘You don’t have to, but –‘ 

‘But nothing!’ Samaira effectively silenced the room. ‘Jayesh is coming with me, Prisha and Riya – and that’s not your decision, Vihaan, nor yours, Mother – and if anyone else wants to come, they’re welcome to.’ She gave her husband a furious look made glassy by tears. ‘If you feel like supporting your son later on, then by all means come. I couldn't care less.’ She flounced out in a flurry of tears, Prisha close to follow. 

Jayesh went to his room with an odd mixture of guilt and pride on his face.

*

Cameron was staring at a textbook, trying desperately to remember the chemical equation for butane. Eventually he threw the textbook across the room. It soared in a perfect arc and landed on the desk with a clap. 

Mali came in just in time for this display and looked disapproving. ‘You said you’d revise Chemistry before it was time to go.’ 

‘I only just threw it now! I’ve been memorizing the chemical form of butane.’ 

Mali rolled her eyes. ‘There’s an equation specifically made so you don’t have to memorize the chemical equation for butane – which, by the way, I bet you don’t even know.’ 

Cameron scowled and fidgeted in his seat. ‘Well, I learnt loads of other stuff.’

‘There’s no need to grill him, Mali. I think it’s good, Cameron- all this interest in your schoolwork,’ said Aunt Clare, her voice a lovely imitation of investment. 

‘Yeah,’ said Cameron. 

‘And this _club_ ,’ said Aunt Clare brightly. ‘So dedicated! What club is it again?’ 

Cameron and Mali exchanged looks. There was an unspoken rule, somehow, that the original purpose of the club was never discussed, despite there being no tangible problem with it. 

‘Just a club … for kids,’ said Cameron, at last.

‘Mmm,’ said Mali. ‘We do lots of things.’ 

‘Help each other out,’ said Cameron. 

Aunt Clare nodded brightly and motioned out the door. Though she was keen to drop them places, she never really listened. Cameron sometimes wondered why he and Mali bothered to lie.

‘How’s Sophie?’ Mali asked, her tone grudging. 

Cameron stopped. ‘I don’t know,’ he said curiously. He checked his phone. ‘Her texts are always pretty irregular, but…’

‘Stop fussing,’ said Mali immediately. ‘If she’s not at the fashion show tonight, then you can worry.’

*

Sophie was in a police station with Andrea. 

‘I’m just sayin’, love, looking at him, looking at you - you must have had an idea-‘ 

Andrea’s eyes flashed as she stood up. A couple of the policeman’s hands went to their weapons. Someone muttered that they wouldn’t like her to land a lamp on their head. 

‘All I want to know is what you’re going to do with that nutcase, and what you’re going to do with Sophie!’

‘The flat’s alright, ain’t it?’ 

‘She can’t go back there all alone!’ 

‘Weren’t you living with him?’ 

‘We’d only been dating a few months!’ 

‘Yeah, but I thought, a girl like you– you must have spent a few nights together…’

‘ _A girl like me_? What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Now don’t take offence.' 

Andrea looked furious. ‘You know what, fine. We’ll apply for a restraining order or something somewhere else. Sophie can come live with me for a bit.’ 

The policeman rolled his eyes. ‘You do what you like, love. We can't tell you nothing about him at the moment.'

She stomped out, grabbing a glass of water from the distributer as she left. As she walked out the door a group of boys on bikes hollered and shouted.


	13. A Boy Wary of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel's fashion show changes some old relationships and creates some new ones. The police department raise the stakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a strangely long chapter. Sorry if it's too much!

It was a room of vibrant colours, squeals, silks and satins, perfumes and powders, hats and hairspray, and- of course - a wide variety of fashions. A plethora of hair straighteners, curlers, mousses, sprays and creams lay scattered on the tables. Troops of nail polishes stood in rows, straight-backed. Powders, both sultry and bright, had collected in a huddle nearby. Pots of glitter, rows of liquid lipsticks, and sheets of gems were spread over desks. The models were sat in seats as makeup was applied, hair was styled or nails were painted. A few were practising costume changes. Some frantic looking amateur tailors were hastily stitching up a dress that a tearfully apologetic model had torn. 

Scarlet sat amidst the anarchy, taking notes. 

‘Am I going gold glitter with Caitlyn?’ Diane called. Diane was a makeup artist for the night. She was a pale girl with frizzy red hair and a striking sense of style that imitated beauty. Caitlyn was a model, a gorgeous girl with toffee skin and pronounced cheekbones. 

‘No, this one,’ Angel snapped. ‘I did _say_ –‘. He sounded scratchy. His voice cracked sharply. ‘Ugh, I'm tired. Hugo-'

Hugo appeared with the drink before he was asked.

‘You’re perfect. Oh my god, I’m sorry. You’ve been running around after me all night.’ 

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Hugo softly. ‘This is your night.’ He debated internally whether or not he should mention to Hugo that his family was in the audience. Aarav and Hiran looked uncomfortable, Vihaan fuming, and Sahil appeared to feel the urge to assure the surrounding people of his own masculinity every few minutes, but they were all there; Hugo suspected that this was due to Samaira, whose face had an unexpected strength and character to it. Prisha was there in stony, unmoving support, but she seemed mildly interested in the general atmosphere of the room as well; Riya, too, appeared to be waiting in some form of anticipation for the actual show as well as the opportunity to support her brother. Angel’s Grandmother’s eyes were alight with anticipation too, but it was a sardonic glee that spoke of a character that couldn’t wait to criticize. 

Hugo had spent most of the day hoping desperately that the fashion show would go well. The smug, twisted mouth of Angel’s grandmother only served his feelings. 

‘Are there lots of people out there?’ Angel asked anxiously. He was twisting his hands together. His nails were cream, tipped with a black strip. A black floral pattern was printed onto the cream in precarious detail.

‘Yeah, it’s packed,’ said Velvet. ‘There’s loads of reporters – and I think that woman is the manager of our local branch of River Island – and that man runs a really well-known fashion school …' 

‘Hugo did a great job,’ said Mali. ‘Where’s Sophie?’

This ignited a flurry of worry from Cameron which his sister looked sorely irritated to have struck. ‘I don’t know. She came in with this girl I don’t know with blonde twisty hair and I know I don’t know everyone she knows but she doesn’t really talk to many people and she looked really upset and –‘

‘You stay here. I’ll find her,’ she said flatly, clearly unimpressed by his worries. 

‘But-‘

‘The show starts in two minutes,’ said Mali sharply. ‘You’re overreacting and anxious. Just stay here and support Angel. I’ll find her.’ 

*

‘Sophie,’ said Rachel, in surprise. ‘Are you okay?’ 

‘Don’t I look it?’ Sophie laughed, a half hysteric dark laugh. Her eyes were rimmed with smudges of black mascara and red, her eyes glassy. 

Rachel produced a tissue. She looked oddly discomposed. 

‘Are – are you okay? Do you need-‘ Rachel’s cheeks were flushed oddly. ‘Do you need a hug, or something?’

Sophie blinked in surprise, but adjusted herself, her cheeks just as red. ‘Um, sure. A hug would be nice, actually.’ 

The ensuing hug was awkward but not without feeling. Rachel was kind beneath her condescension, and Sophie valued kindness. They were a lot closer than anyone else was to Rachel; she was often rude to Angel, thinking him attention-seeking and shallow, and Angel in turn found her irritating; Velvet thought her sanctimonious and judgemental; Hugo got on well with her, as Hugo did with almost everyone, but he was too placid - he needed someone more exciting than Rachel to stir any real friendship out of him. Cameron joked around too much, and Rachel never laughed; their conversations always ended in awkward silence. Mali had no patience for any type of obnoxiousness or feelings of superiority in people like Rachel and made her dislike clear as she did with everyone she didn’t approve of. 

Scarlet, in her own way, hated her.

‘Why don’t you talk to Cameron?’ Rachel suggested. 

‘Oh,’ said Sophie, in surprise that the romantically cynical Rachel was inclined to ask about Cameron. ‘I wouldn’t really like to talk to Cameron about this.’ 

Rachel nodded. ‘He’s rather immature, isn’t he?’ she said, in the sort of tone that would have earned her a glare or an eye roll from a different audience. Sophie searched for the well-meaning behind the comment, and decided instead that it was rather sweet that Rachel understood what she was feeling so well.

‘Well – yes,’ she said. ‘He can – he’s very childish, sometimes.’ 

Rachel nodded. 

Their heads were very close. 

‘You’re very … you understand life,’ said Rachel. ‘It makes sense that you can’t find someone … satisfying … someone that will understand as much as you understand, and be mature enough to react well to any – misunderstanding.’ 

Sophie nodded. ‘Cameron’s so sweet,’ she said. She moved her head away from Rachel’s. ‘But he isn’t – he isn’t…’ 

‘He isn’t right for you,’ said Rachel. ‘At least, not now,’ she amended, at Sophie’s look of alarm. ‘He’ll mature as he grows, I’m sure. But he might mature to be very different. The things you love about him will develop and change.’ She spoke to her like she was a mentor and Sophie was a schoolchild. But there was something freeing, for the girl who dusted and cooked and washed and scrubbed after her brother, to be a child, to be the immature one – and Rachel did understand – she understood what it was like, to be upsettingly more mature than your peers, even if Rachel’s maturity was more natural to her than Sophie’s.

Sophie bit her lip. ‘But, then – so might the things I don’t like.’

Rachel cocked her head. ‘Of course,’ she said, somewhat disbelievingly. Sophie shuffled. 

They were still facing one another. 

‘But I suppose …’ said Sophie. ‘As we grow … we might grow apart.’

‘If you’re with someone who doesn’t change – who is mature,’ said Rachel, and now their heads were very close indeed, ‘then you don’t need to worry about the future… that’s why I’ve always waited; for someone just as mature as me.’

Her lips were chapped and dry, her ponytail messy as usual. Her acne had cropped up again. But that keen, intelligent beauty was still there behind it, and it shone through at that moment –

‘You’re needed in the other room.’ 

Mali, as usual, looked intensely unappreciative of Rachel. Her words were clipped and short. She left quickly.

Rachel darted like a bee and stung Sophie with the quickest of kisses. It was only on the cheek. 

Sophie swallowed and, on the cheek, reciprocated. Her lips imprinted a plump, pink, glossy glamour mark onto Rachel’s bumpy, scarred cheekbones.

‘We’re just – we’re just friends,’ she said. Her voice was firm.

Rachel didn’t reply. 

‘Hurry _up_ ,’ said Mali, poking her head back round the door, her voice sharp as it usually was with Rachel. Sophie scampered after her.

*

‘Group picture?’ said Rachel loftily. ‘You called us in here for a group picture?’ 

Cameron wrapped his arm around Sophie’s waist. She smiled, but her eyes were unfocused, glassy. 

‘Are you okay?’ he asked. 

Sophie smiled a brittle smile. ‘Sure.'

Cameron’s eyebrows knitted, and he opened his mouth, but Velvet announced that everyone should get into positions for the selfie.

‘I’ve never taken a selfie before,’ said Rachel, rather smugly, as if her detachment from generational conventions was an achievement. This, as usual, elicited a bout of irritation. Mali glared at her; someone muttered something insulting.

Hugo choked a disapproving laugh.

Velvet snapped the camera. Indignant cries of ‘I wasn’t ready!’ immediately sounded, to Velvet’s amusement, and another picture, this time with appropriate poses, was taken.

‘Come on – seats, seats! It’s starting soon-!’ 

The makeup and hair crew, tailors and management team, led by Angel, hurried out to their seats on the side in a poor attempt to be quiet and inconspicuous as possible.

‘Angel,’ Hugo whispered, as he took the seat next to him.

Angel turned, his eyes impatient, but soft for Hugo as they wouldn’t have been for anyone else who interrupted his current thoughts. 

‘Look in the fourth row.’ 

Angel turned, and his stomach jumped in his seat. ‘Is that-?’ He answered his own question. ‘My family,’ he said.

‘Is that – is that good?’ 

Angel’s face was oddly vulnerable in the soft silver light. He looked like an angel out of a painting, his flawless skin, his long lashes, and the burning golden eyes. 

‘It’s good,’ he said quietly, suddenly the soft, bashful Angel that he rarely was in public. Nerves exposed, he hid his head in Hugo’s shoulder. ‘Do you think that means – do you think that means they care?’ 

Hugo smiled, but then caught himself. He didn’t want to raise hopes – but then, this was a chance, for hope, wasn’t it?

Was it a chance he should take?

He didn’t want to become so bitter that he became wary of hope. 

‘They care enough to come,’ he said honestly. ‘That’s something.’ 

Angel nodded, and gripped Hugo’s hand. ‘Sorry I’ve been so militant today. I’ve been bossy and mad.’ 

Hugo laughed softly, and Angel gave him an indignant slap to the shoulder. 

‘I’m trying to be honest and apologetic here!’ 

‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry. You have been a bit, but I don’t mind.’ 

‘I do,’ said Angel petulantly. ‘Even when I’m super busy and everyone’s doing everything wrong, the person I’m with is the person I can trust to be my rock. I can trust you – I always have. Even if you brought me the wrong tea and then spilt it all over me I’d trust you.' He grinned. 'Love has made me a fool.’ He stretched out his legs in a display of melodrama. Hugo knew he was using humour to work up the courage to get to the point, and waited patiently. 

Eventually, Angel sighed. 

‘You’re part of me. If I ever lost you it’d be like part of my body had been carved away.’ 

A blush tipped Hugo’s ears. ‘It’s the same for me, Angel.’ 

‘And – and you’re so sweet. You put up with me when I’m yelling at everybody and demanding tea.’ 

Hugo giggled. ‘You didn’t technically _demand_ the tea.’ 

‘I was going to. You’re just so sweet that you already knew.’ Angel paused. ‘Hugo – you’re such a big part of me, and because – because I’m such a big part of you, I take advantage of that and don’t always treat you with the same respect as you treat me.’ His words were rushed, aware that the show was soon due to start. ‘I don’t want to be the bully in this relationship. I don’t want you to be scared of me when I’m mad or busy. I don’t want to click my fingers and have you bring me drinks like you’re my secretary. I know I get bitchy when I’m busy. Next time I am, please just tell me to shut up.’ 

Hugo smiled softly. ‘That’s – that’s really thoughtful, but I don’t like the thought of telling you to shut up. I like it that we don’t fight. I think you’re just nervous a lot of the time, and need to calm down. I’ll – I’ll tell you when I think you need to take a minute.’ 

Angel smiled, breathed, and allowed Hugo to kiss his cheek and murmur quiet encouragement for a minute or two. Then he slid away and righted himself. He was wearing the white blouse with the black blow again, but this time with a flared, black skirt. His shoes were cream and black and, Hugo knew, specially bought for the occasion.  
Hugo saw him mouth three, two and one, breathe out – and then Angel was back. His back was straight, his face composed. And just that moment, the silver strobe lights converged into a singular, white spotlight, revealing the dark silhouette of a model posing with a hand placed on her hip. 

‘The lights look good,’ Hugo whispered.

Angel nodded, chewing on a perfectly pink lip. ‘Yeah… but soon they’re supposed to-‘ 

The lights spiralled out in pulsing shards of golden light, forming walls that marked the track of the girl. Her name was Aileen. She wore a silky golden dress with a large bow on the neckline. Golden flowers were wreathed through the curly puffs of hair like an Olympian victory wreath.

‘She looks good,’ Hugo whispered again.

Angel nodded. His eyes were frantically darting across the stage and the audience, taking in every detail. Another model was stalking down now, a girl with long red hair piled on top of her head and tan skin. Her dress was silky white, a long, slim oval cut down the middle. The two sides of the cut-out were held together by golden thread.

This was Angel’s first collection. He had called it _Arete_ , which meant excellence, and it suited it. The gold theme, intricate designs and regal models certainly emulated that, and, of course, Angel himself; Hugo could see Angel in the poised posture and haughty expressions, the way they held themselves, like they knew themselves to be above. Hugo loved watching these fashions, not only because he could see the clothes, but because he could see Angel.

A dark-skinned boy with a tiara of diamonds (fake, of course, but his expression suggested better) walked past in an elaborate robe, passing a girl, tall and stately in a cream coat with a flared collar and a pale golden tie. Hugo could see lots of the people in the front row – reserved for the important, influential guests – nodding and whispering to the people near them. Cameras flashed. 

Angel was glancing nervously backstage. Behind the scenes, it was imperative that the auction segment of the management crew were doing their jobs for the evening to be successful. As the models walked off and shed their clothes, they had to be hung up carefully and displayed in the back, ready for the auction that was happening after the actual show. Hugo knew he was longing for a buy, but didn’t think he’d have to work hard. A lot of the people here tonight were wealthy ones, interested in fashion. It was admittedly a schoolboy’s show in a rented theatre, but it had received a lot of attention; and, Hugo thought, attention always drew more and more of the same…

The collection finished in a flash of blinding golden light, to tumultuous applause. There was something about these haughty god-like creatures that forced appreciation out of an audience. They commanded respect and adoration – and intrigued you to uncover the rest of the more open, vulnerable aspects of the show – the more human parts.

Hugo didn’t know if he was overanalysing. He wondered if the audience were contemplating the boy behind the models.

He wondered if Angel’s family could see it at all, or if the clear images of their son were distorted and blurred to them; a mirror so cracked and foggy that they couldn’t see the reflection. 

But, after all, cracks could be fixed and fog cleared away.

*

The next collection was called _Exhibition_. It was elegant and bejewelled and overall aesthetically pleasing. Some of the models were striking with high cheekbones and full lips, others were seductive with sultry smiles and smoky eyes, and some were just conventionally attractive to the highest possible standard. Each one, Hugo thought, was gorgeous – not gorgeous like pretty, or nice-looking, but gorgeous like Angel. Perfect, like a sculpted work of art – and they all had that same staged quality to them, that perfection in every movement. They floated to the airy, inviting music, seemingly effortlessly. Hugo wondered what their loved ones knew about them, what people saw when the perfect paintings cracked. 

After all, no-one could be art all the time. Humans were born to be, not to be looked at.

Angel, perhaps, recognized that as well. His next collection, called _Gloom_ , appeared to represent the cracks in his own persona. The models were striking and the clothes were an assailment. The colours were sharp, some glaringly monotone and others sourly colourful. They stalked down the runway in heels that snapped and clacked against the floor. The music began to pulse, sharp and rigid, in time with the sudden, melodramatic poses – almost gesti – that the models jerked into. It was almost a dance piece, chaotic and in sync all at once. A lot of the clothes had been designed at Hugo’s home after he had moved there. 

The last model of Gloom stood centre-stage, the harsh spotlight highlighting her and the discomfort of her almost contortionistic position. She was dressed in a parachute of colours; glaring reds and yellows that were a parody of happiness.

Then it abruptly shifted.

She was soon joined by similarly brightly dressed models, moving all together to the sudden upbeat, cheery music. This was _Vibrant_ ; models with puffy hair and loud lipstick and bright eyes. They almost danced down the catwalk; and Hugo couldn’t help but smile at the memories. This was Angel laughing, Angel dancing, Angel when Hugo and he had a pillow fight or a fake wrestling match. The centre-stage model of Gloom was hardly the centre anymore, but she still walked with them, blending in as she stood out. 

Gradually, the music began to slow and colours began to dim into paler, softer yellows; less oranges and more apricots; baby blues and pale pinks. This last collection was called _Comfort_. Hugo had never seen much of this collection, but when he did, it made his heart jump. The models were in soft pastels, knitwear, Doc Marten boots, somewhat understated in comparison to the rest. Jumpers that imitated the ones Hugo usually wore, boots defiantly like his. They were heavily stylized, of course; Hugo was never dressed for the runway – but he could see not just Angel but himself there.

The last model wore a pink turtleneck with a pleated skirt that hugged her thighs and flared out slightly around the legs, and leathered brown Doc Marten boots. Her hair was blonde and tied in French plaits. Her name was Carolyn. She wasn’t perfect, and had an earthy sort of face that didn’t make you think model when you saw her, but she was pretty. The prettiness was evident as the floodlights came on. Carolyn, luckily, was one of those insatiable people that was in no way put off by the applause.

As soon as it had died down she began speaking. It was one of those commandingly enthusiastic voices that both quelled noise and made people long to make it. She gave a quick recognition of the work of the teams behind the show, greeted the audience, and then, as Angel knew she would, summoned him to the stage. His boots clacked on the wood.  
The audience looked a lot bigger from where Angel was standing, but he didn’t look daunted to them. Angel didn’t know if he looked daunted to Hugo or not. 

‘I hope you enjoyed the show,’ he began, without the awkward um’s or hi’s that Hugo was sure he would have sputtered out. ‘Carolyn already thanked all of the teams, like the lighting and the makeup, and honestly you guys were fantastic and I can’t even voice how grateful I am to you. You’ve worked so hard – I’ve worked so hard – and trust me, pity these people because there was a lot to work hard on. Honestly, some of these clothes you saw today I designed about three years ago. I’d like to thank all of the people who helped me arrive here, develop these designs, make these clothes – the people who just put up with me, too.’ That brought a laugh, and for a moment, a flicker of a smile broke Angel’s confident demeanour. ‘There’s a few I’d like to mention by name –Mali, Sophie, Cameron, Rachel; you guys were fantastic in managing it all. Scarlet, I’m pretty sure that I’d be holding this in Danson Park under a tent if it wasn’t for you. Thanks for keeping me grounded. Your organization has been one of my rocks. Velvet, you’ve been a babe.’ This again, gathered a laugh. ‘Thanks for helping me with the designs – and for helping compose and editing the music, that was great. Riya – thank you for letting me ruin your clothes and modelling my designs and – and just believing in me all these years.’ There was a swallow, and then Angel continued. ‘I know we haven’t been at our best lately, but none of this would be here if it wasn’t for you.’ Hugo found Riya and saw her holding a hand to her mouth, eyes teary. ‘Hugo …’ he stopped for a moment, and then relaxed a little.  
Hugo took in a shaky breath. He was still beautiful, and still Angel, but some of that exhibition had gone. 

‘This fashion show was your idea. If it hadn’t been for you, these would have been scraps of silk and lace hidden in my wardrobe, instead of being out here tonight. Thank you so much for realizing my dream – and holding my hand as I did it. You were my inspiration for _Comfort_ , and, well – that’s what you are.’ There were a few aww’s. Angel’s cheeks were hot. He hoped they didn't look red in the light.

‘And ...'

He found his parents in the audience. Samaira looked a little struck and very proud and more determined than he'd seen her. He'd always assumed that his fire was from his father, but in that moment he saw himself in his mother's image. His father's face looked blank to a stranger, but Angel could see he was troubled, his eyebrows low in his face. He thought of keeping his clothes a secret and having them thrown into rubbish bins, and then his mother demanding he come downstairs and perform a family dinner. He thought of screaming and arguing over taking Dance and Textiles. He thought of his mother arguing with him about makeup loudly enough for his father to hear and recognise it, knowing all that would ensue.

He locked eyes with them both and hoped they could see in his exactly what he was remembering and exactly what he was thinking. This fashion show was entirely and authentically his. He'd done it in spite of, not because of them. They didn't deserve any thanks in his moment, so he didn't give them any.

‘Thank you all for coming. I hope you enjoy the auction, meet plenty of new people there and hopefully buy some clothes. Like Carolyn said, there’ll be refreshments.’ 

When he walked off the stage, heels still clacking, there was a touch of gloom in his eyes.

*

Angel had been discussing things with people for a lot of the night, smart-dressed people with cards and numbers. When he came away from the last, Hugo took his chance and went over.

‘It went well,’ he said softly. Angel’s face was split in a smile. 

‘Hugo – Hugo, Hugo oh my _God_ it went well! Look – look! This woman runs a fashion shop in town, and she wants to mass produce some of my designs and make it like, a section exhibition thing in her shop. You know, like you get in House of Fraser-‘ 

‘Angel.’ It was Riya, her eyes shining, that dazzling dentist smile. ‘Oh, Angel, that was amazing. I loved the colourful one near the end.’ 

Hugo smiled. Riya had her issues, but ultimately, she always saw Angel’s vibrancy too. 

‘You could have mentioned us for coming to your show in your thank-you speech,’ said Grandmother sourly. ‘Especially after what we saw. All of these boys prancing around in tiaras and jewels. It’s ridiculous. And all these girls –‘ she motioned round the room – ‘need to cover up.’ 

There was not so much glee in her tone as there usually was. Angel smiled. That was a sure sign that it had been a success. 

‘I was going to,’ he said cautiously. ‘Mention you. But then I remembered something someone said to me.’ 

Aunt Prisha raised an eyebrow. ‘Which was…?’ 

‘Well – I wasn’t technically there when you said it. Hugo told me later. She said, _if we begin to insinuate that entitlements are things to be joyful about, then we ingrain the mindset that an entitlement is a thing of privilege instead of a thing of normalcy_.’

‘You remembered that well,’ Grandmother said sarcastically. ‘If you paid as much attention to your schoolwork as you do to fashion and your friends talking, perhaps you’d be passing some of your classes.’ 

Angel huffed. Scarlet’s words had been his go-to every time he felt guilty for leaving his family for those days he needed to heal. He knew them almost as well as his dragons quote.

Grandmother would not make him feel bad for that.

‘Well – did the fashion show go well? What have all of these people been talking to you about?’ asked Samaira anxiously. 

Angel, for a moment, split into pure happiness. ‘I’ve got loads of new contacts now – and interviews – and one woman even made me an offer on the spot. It’s – it’s gone so well.’

‘Well, then,’ said Aunt Prisha in a business-like tone, ‘you’re going to have to start managing your business finances. We can all pitch in to help you.'

Aarav laughed. ‘It’s hardly a _job_ , is it?’

‘Of course it’s not a bloody job,’ said Hiran. ‘It’s sick, that’s what it is. Like all his gay stuff.’ 

Hugo felt himself cowering inside, his nerves folded like paper. Angel flinched, but stood his ground. 

_That’s what you need. That strength._

Hugo swallowed, and did his best at a proud stance. Angel stood like he always stood, hip cocked, leg bent, but Hugo knew that that was the proudest stance he could make.  
Strength, by rejecting the conventional ideas of strength; resilience, while emulating everything everyone associated with weakness. Hugo wished he could communicate how much he admired Angel’s sort of power.

Angel and Riya both opened their mouths to interject, but neither of them got there. It was Jayesh that burst forward.

‘Oh just _shut up_ , Hiran!’ Everyone turned to him in amazement, but he clearly wasn’t finished. ‘I don’t know anything about – about fashion, or lighting, or clothes, or auctions. But I do know what it’s like to be good at nothing. To go to school and take a course that almost everyone could take if they work hard enough. We have to do – we have to do more to do something loving, in our job. We have to put the love into it. And there’s nothing wrong with that. We need people like us, the world needs people like us. But Angel’s job is like – it’s like love just by being, just because he loves it, and I don’t know anything about it, but I do know that by looking at the prices of all these bloody clothes he's selling, it’s true, he will end up making more money than us. And I don’t know what success looks like, because I haven’t had much of that, and neither have you. But from what I’ve seen this is pretty damn successful, and I think that’s the sort of thing we should celebrate.’ 

He took a deep breath, and then, before anyone could retaliate, he walked away. 

There was a pause. 

‘Was that Jayesh?’ asked Hugo. His tone was mild, but his eyebrows had gone up.

Angel screwed up his nose, but there was a pleased flush to his cheeks. ‘Yeah – yeah. He’s changed, recently.’ 

‘I think he’s just becoming more like him,’ said Hugo seriously. ‘And more like you.’ 

* 

_You’ve been a babe._

Velvet might even have been happy with that if Hugo hadn’t gotten an entire collection inspired by him. Looking at the clothes, she wasn’t quite sure why she hadn’t seen it, with all the ancient-looking jumpers and boots. But then, she hadn’t seen a lot of things. 

Angel was talking to lots of people. Some were simply congratulating him; but others had been exchanging cards with him, giving emails and writing down phone numbers and confirming interview dates. Angel was getting the exposure he needed. 

That should have made her happy. Instead, it just added to her bitterness. She didn’t want her friends soaring into a new fairytale life without her and leaving her to gruel through the dust they left in their wake.

She threw a cake wrapper into the bin and sat. 

‘Hey – you’re one of Angel’s friends – right?’ 

It was one of the brothers. Tall, with Angel’s gorgeous skin – lucky boy – and tousled hair. He wasn’t beautiful like Angel, not by a long shot, and he was tall and broad-shouldered – but he was like his younger brother. Velvet could see a spark in his eyes, a firmness in his mouth, that she had never noticed in one of Angel’s brothers before.

‘Yeah,’ she said, sourly. 

‘You don’t sound very happy about it,’ he said. 

‘You don’t sound very happy either.’ 

Jayesh swallowed. ‘Well – I don’t know. Some of my family aren’t really being great, even though Angel’s doing so well. Sometimes – sometimes I wish that I could do what Angel does, just be so rebellious, so him, and not care what they do.’ 

Velvet nodded, a flicker of surprise flashing across her face. ‘He does care. He’s just very – he’s very brave. In stuff like Family. Me and my parents had a huge series of rows about me – me being trans, me being pierced, dressing how I wanted, being friends with who I wanted – and then eventually, it got exhausting for everyone and we were all crying and we just gave up on fighting. But now, there’s nothing. We just hate each other. I can’t wait to leave. I used – I used to be too scared to start those fights again, because at the time it was honestly soul-shattering to hear my mum and dad shout such hatred at me. Now, I just can’t be bothered. I’ve lost any love I had for them. I know it sounds bad, but – I can’t be bothered. I can’t be bothered to fight so hard for the approval and love of – of people I just don’t love anymore.’ 

Jayesh’s face had changed. ‘I never – I never really thought families could fall out of love.’ 

‘Families are people that love each other just how everyone loves each other,’ said Velvet softly. ‘The only difference is that you don’t get to choose them.’ 

Jayesh didn’t speak for a minute. ‘I’m glad,’ he said at last. ‘That Angel’s fighting. I wouldn’t like it if – if he stopped loving. I wish I could fight like that.’

‘You can,’ said Velvet, and Jayesh's eyebrow quirked in surprise. ‘Trust me. I know Angel, and I can see him in you. You're not physically alike, but when your eyes flash like that, and you go all pouty, you look just like him.’ 

Jayesh looked indignant. ‘I don’t _pout_!’ 

‘Yes you do. You both do.’ 

‘I do _not_ pout!’ 

Velvet smiled despite herself. ‘You can complain all you want. You pout.’

‘I don’t!’

‘You’re even pouting about not pouting.’

‘I have _never_ -‘

As Jayesh continued to protest, Velvet felt her heart soften slightly. 

Maybe she didn’t need a perfect angel, a grate of flames; someone that burned so brightly they scalded her. She needed something like – like a candle. A candle that just needed lighting every now and then.

Velvet always knew that she fell in love too fast. But, as always, she didn’t care. 

*

**Briefing Room, 8:32am**

Boardman spat out his drink. ‘Ugh, this is disgusting. That secretary – Eleanor or whatever her name is – can’t make tea.’ 

James regarded his cup mournfully. ‘My drink’s wrong too.’ 

Marilyn nodded with an expression of dissatisfaction. ‘As is mine.’

Percival sipped his correct drink smugly. 

‘So – we have a lovely fashion show. Everyone’s cheery, everyone’s happy. Rachel and Sophie bond. Andrea and Sophie have escaped this abusive relationship. Velvet finds new love. Hugo and Angel are going great. There is this constant undercurrent of family issues here, but that’s a long term thing,’ said Boardman. ‘So –‘ he threw down his pen. ‘ _What_? Why? What did one of these kids see, hear, do? What don’t we know?’ 

Marilyn sniffed. ‘Rachel and Sophie’s bonding didn’t sound like friendly bonding to me. I think there was a bit of underlying teenage romance there, even if it seems unrequited. I doubt Cameron would be happy about that. Is he the sort to murder his girlfriend’s lover?’ 

‘They’ve hardly been dating long,’ James protested. ‘And he’s a teenage boy.’ 

‘How long have you been in the police force? Not many things more dangerous than an entitled teenage boy,’ said Percival grimly. ‘And love, when you’re a teenager – it’s not the way we see love, soft and nurtured over time. It’s hard and fast. Especially if that Scarlet girl got to him …’

Marilyn had moved on. ‘Andrea and Sophie may have escaped, and they will be better in the long run, but I doubt their mental health would have been quite fantastic after their incident with Jerome. In Sophie's account of the goings-on, it did sound as if she was very disturbed. Velvet might have met a nice boy, but like you said, there was some worrying issues with her family there. Hugo and Angel _were_ going great – but what happens when two teenage boys get _too_ invested? What happens when a boy becomes another boy’s only source of comfort?’ 

James threw down his pen. ‘No amount of psychology is going to get us evidence. All of these kids _might_ have done it. But who did it? The more we investigate, the more convoluted it gets. And we still have no bloody leads on that fake police officer at the party.’ 

Percival’s face tightened. ‘I’m trying – but whoever did it covered his tracks suspiciously well. I can believe an incompetent party supervisor sees trouble and hits the road. But why the fake names, the false leads? He’s impossible to find.’

‘Maybe one of the kids would recognize him?’ James suggested. 

Percival raised his hands. ‘You can imagine with the alcohol and the dancing and everything that nobody could really give me much to go on. They’ve got one description – large man, balding, dressed in a police uniform.’ 

‘In short,’ Marilyn remarked, ‘thirty percent of the men in Britain could have put on a costume and come to the party.’

Boardman sighed. ‘Right. So there’s this fashion show. How much later was the party?’ 

James flipped a page. ‘About a month.’ 

‘And Scarlet hosted it.’ 

‘Well,’ said Marilyn. ‘Not exactly. Almost. It was her house – she planned it. But the party wasn’t for her. It was for Sophie.’ 

There was a pause. 

‘Oh?’ said Boardman. ‘And how did that come about?’ 

*

**An Empty Classroom, A Week After The Fashion Show**

The odd, three-legged table was in the centre of the room. The jar of black and white mint humbugs was only half full. 

‘Well,’ said Scarlet, ‘the fashion show was a success.’ 

There was general agreement and congratulations. Angel was flushed in victory. He’d made a remarkable amount of money at the night of the auction, and the rest of the clothes were available to buy online and many had been going. The overall profit decreased a small amount after he paid the tailors who had helped him, but in the long run he was making money, not even mentioning the amount of opportunity he had received.

Success showed on Angel. His hands were freshly manicured. His nails were polished, but clear. He was wearing a pale yellow dress in open defiance of expectations and the weather.

‘Now, is there any new business or editions that I should note?’ 

‘Um,’ Sophie said. ‘I’d like – I’d like to talk about what I want. Why I’m here. I – I came here originally because … because…’ She shifted. ‘Well, you all know about my brother, Jerome. I came here because I wished I was scary and confident and couldn’t think of anyone scarier or more confident than a murderer. But that changed. Now I’m just really happy to have all of you – all my friends. And my second wish is to make as many friends as I can, to be as good a friend as I can and – and you know. Just make the most of my time here.’ She finished with a rather red face, looking embarrassed. Cameron had his arm around her, but it looked awkward. 

Rachel’s face didn’t betray anything.

‘Well – I suppose now Angel is done, we need something new to work on,’ Velvet said, breaking the silence. ‘It would be lit if we had a party.’ 

‘A party?’ asked Scarlet, somewhat indignantly. 

‘Sophie wants to make friends. Parties are great for socializing,’ Velvet argued. 

‘And for getting wasted,’ said Mali. Her lips were pursed. 

‘Well, it’s like she said, right?' said Velvet, with a grin that knew it was riling someone up. 'Make the most of our time here.’ 

‘How is getting drunk making the most of your time?’ 

‘Parties aren’t just about alcohol,’ said Hugo mildly. His voice was so amiable that it cooled both of the girls down instantly. ‘I don’t – I don’t really get out either. It might be good for me.’ 

Angel flexed his legs, as if to taunt everyone else with the flawlessly toned caramel skin. ‘I think a party sounds fun,’ he said decidedly. 

‘I’m sure _you_ do,’ said Rachel, her lips drawn in. ‘I won't go.’

‘Well, you can lecture people about underage drinking rules and judge everyone having fun, so you’ll have a great time, won’t you?’ said Velvet impatiently. 

‘This isn’t relevant,’ Cameron broke in. ‘I think it sounds cool-‘ Mali shot him a look – ‘but this is Sophie’s wish.’

There was a pause in which everyone turned to look at Sophie.

Sophie’s face was red, but eventually she stammered out that she had never really had a proper party before and would like to go.

And thus, the planning began. 

*

**Briefing Room, 8:37 am**

‘So here we are again at the bloody _party_ ,’ said Boardman. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. ‘Hugo. Sheltered, sweet, naïve, had a pretty stressful time looking after an emotionally unsettled boyfriend recently. Angel. Said emotionally unsettled boyfriend. Do we know what happened with the family after the fashion show?’

‘Was set to be a lovely reunion, but Angel was naturally upset after what his brother Hiran said,’ James reported. ‘He got over it pretty quickly and stayed at auction, but didn’t attempt much contact since. I know eventually he forgave his sister Riya. After the murder inquiry started they haven’t been allowed to see each other, so he moved back in with his family. How it’s going, I don’t know.’

‘Alright, so the status is still emotionally unsettled, though if he’s going back to his family it looks like some of the load has been taken off Hugo. Angel’s got a lot of stress going on with a hobby that suddenly turned into a business. He was having problems at school. If someone could check up with them if he settled down any ... Velvet. Looks like she’s over Angel and is now going for the older brother, slightly illegal I’m sure –‘

‘She’s sixteen, some months older than Angel, but he’s in sixth form,’ James said. ‘Seventeen going eighteen.’ 

‘Not awful, but that’s still quite a maturity gap. Her parents haven’t changed, of course. Emotional girl. We know she runs into things like relationships – would she be just as hasty with a murder case, perhaps? Cameron – seems to be a bit of a lad, really. Got his Chemistry grades up. All set to try out for basketball. Would discount him if it wasn’t for that nasty past with his father. I bet he’s got some demons we can dig up. Then there’s Mali. Same with her. Seems to be a very sensible, almost stodgy girl. A fantastical plot to murder another for no real reason doesn’t seem to be up her street at all – but then, you never know. She’s very closed off, quiet – and she’s got that same emotional scarring.’ 

‘Of course, the fact that one has had neglecting, abusive or otherwise unsuitable parents in the past does not automatically signify a motive,’ Marilyn remarked. ‘But it is a possibility.’ 

'Sophie,' Inspector Boardman ploughed on. 'Just got away from her brother. Had a sudden flashback of an abusive mother. Moved house with this girl Andrea who she doesn’t really know - but it looks like she’s got more confident recently.’ 

‘That’s what she wanted – and she went to Murder Club to do it,’ Percival remarked. 

‘I think we need to get every child’s perspective on what happened at the party,’ said Boardman flatly. ‘We know the base facts, but we – need – more.’ He slammed his fist onto the table with every word. ‘ _Exactly_ what they were doing. Percival, what’s going on with our fraudulent police officer?’ 

Percival sighed. ‘I think I've got something of a lead. Daniel Green was apparently hired through an agency. They might be able to provide me with a picture or some additional information.'

‘Alright. Marilyn, James, you’ll be interviewing the kids – unless, Percival, you need help?’ 

‘No – no – I’ll be fine.’

Marilyn inclined her head. ‘Of course.’ 

Boardman gestured round the room. 

‘Alright, so. What’s the game plan?’ 

‘We’re going to go get some statements from the kids about the party and themselves,’ said James. 

‘And to go get some genuine coffee,’ said Marilyn, placing down her coffee with a resigned but displeased expression. 

‘We need to fire that godforsaken woman,’ Boardman said. 

‘Firing Ellie isn’t the important thing right now,’ said Percival, sounding rather indignant about Boardman’s lack of focus on the case. 

James laughed and clapped him on the back. ‘Not like you to be so invested in your work. Do you want something at the shop?’ 

‘Nah, I’ve got my coffee,’ said Percival, taking a gulp. ‘And finally, a lead on this policeman … I’m going to go check it out.’ 

‘We have all the kids addresses, right? Scarlet’s?’

‘It’s written down here,’ said Marilyn, who disliked James’ penchant for fussing over things he has already done. ‘Scarlet’s house is 43, Elmwood Grove.’ 

Boardman nodded. ‘Expensive houses – nice venue for a party, could afford all that sound equipment with that kind of money, I expect …’ 

‘Are we to visit them separately?’

‘No. Some of us might miss what the others notice. And they all live relatively close – they all go to the same school. We’ll be able to get it done if we work quickly.’ 

‘So,’ Boardman yelled as they left the room, ‘don’t stop for coffee!’

‘We could even stop at Percival’s,’ said James pleadingly. ‘It’s right in The Grove.’

‘No, you bloody can’t!’ Boardman got up and walked out, face crunched into a mix of wrinkles and frown lines.

*  
**7, Palm Lane, 9:02am** The first house they ended up at was Hugo’s. The door was opened by Arianne. A strip of pink paint splattered her cheek. 

‘Officers. Do come in.’ She sounded gracious as always, but there was concern in her eyes. ‘Do you wish to speak to Hugo, or me?’ 

‘Hugo,’ said Marilyn, her voice curt and business-like as always. Arianne nodded and called Hugo as she made them some satisfactory coffee. Hugo looked pensive and worried. He was nibbling his lip.

‘When can I see my friends?’ he asked. 

Marilyn arched her eyebrows. ‘Not relevant,’ she said flatly. 

‘We’re thinking after these set of interviews we’re going to do a group one,’ said James, who was more inclined to be pitying than Marilyn. She shot him a look.

‘Okay,’ said Hugo, face brighter. ‘What do you want to know?’ 

‘Describe the party – all of it,’ said Marilyn intently. ‘And do _not_ leave out small things. That’s what a case is – a lot of strange small things put together in one big picture.’ 

Arianne crossed one of her legs over the other, her eyes suddenly piercing. ‘Well, Hugo’s missing school and his friends. Do you have any idea of the, uh, big picture, Marilyn?’

‘Well-‘ James began, but Marilyn interrupted. 

‘Some of it,’ she said, and then moved on abruptly. ‘So – Hugo …’


	14. The Truth In Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The interviews end in a horrific climax that might reveal the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: a lil bit of gore

**The Party**

Hugo felt awkward. Parties were hardly his forte, and this particular party was certainly rowdier than anything he had been to before. There was a lot of alcohol, and a lot of dancing, neither of which Hugo particularly liked; and he couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable seeing Angel. 

Unlike Hugo, Angel was used to the party scene, and used to controlling it. He was dancing on a table in the sort of way that would have made Hugo’s mother cover his eyes if on the televesion. Having been used to a partially blocked pixelated view of this sort of dance, seeing it in real life was somewhat jarring. The large crowd around him, however, was what contributed a lot to Hugo’s discomfort. Angel tended to attract attention simply by walking. Right now, he had a lot of it, from a lot of people who were more attractive than Hugo and more like Angel than Hugo and not drinking orange juice out of a plastic cup like Hugo.

Angel turned around and caught Hugo’s eye. He winked flirtily, but when Hugo’s response was an awkward shuffle, his face changed and he jumped nimbly off the table. There was a raucous chorus of yells and complaints, which Angel ignored. He weaved through the pulsating rambunctious crowd effortlessly.

‘Hey, are you okay? Do you need a minute?’ he asked quietly. 

‘Can we go sit down for a little bit?’ 

Angel nodded. ‘Do you want to sit with Sophie and Cameron and them, or just a bit of alone time?’ 

‘Alone time would be good,’ Hugo mumbled.

Hugo nodded. Navigating through the mass of people to an empty space would be difficult for Hugo, but Angel steered his way through with ease. When they were seated Angel turned to him expectantly. 

‘Are you okay? What’s wrong?’ 

‘Nothing. I just don’t like parties, that’s all.’ 

Angel arched his eyebrows. They were perfectly done. Hugo sighed and shuffled. 

‘I don’t know, I feel kind of out of it. And you’re so in your element. I – I get worried that you’ll want someone more like you.’ 

Angel pursed his lips. ‘Hugo, do you remember when we were six and I was going to go do hairdressing with Anita Montoya, but then I went inside and did finger painting with you instead?’

Hugo allowed a smile in spite of himself. ‘Yeah, okay, I get it. You’ve always chosen to hang out with me. But we’re in a relationship now and – and I’m still just that awkward animal guy that hangs out with you.’ He looked out onto the dance floor. ‘Wouldn’t you rather be the boyfriend of that tall guy with the hair and the muscles?’

‘Are you kidding?' Angel smiled rakishly. 'I could get almost anyone at this party. If I wanted him, I’d have him.’

Hugo tried to see the humour, but couldn't. ‘Well, yeah. You can. You can get anyone you want.’ 

Angel noted Hugo's genuine insecurity and tried a different angle. ‘But I want you,’ said Angel softly. ‘I don’t want Velvet. I don’t want Scotty Parker. I don’t want pretty blonde prefects in red lipstick. I don’t want the tall guy with the hair and the muscles. It’s you. It’s always been you.’ He lent his head on Hugo’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with the dancing. I just like attention. You know that. But that’s all it is. Attention.’ He kissed his cheek. ‘And I’d much rather have attention from you.’

Hugo smiled again, but it was watery. Angel pouted and climbed on his lap. 

‘Is it you that needs attention? I’ll dance for you. You know I will.’ His tone was teasing. 

Hugo looked extremely embarrassed. ‘I don’t need dancing for! Plus, my mum would kill me.’

‘Cuddles, then?’ Before Hugo could reply, Angel had already wrapped his arms around him. They stayed like that until Wink Murder was bellowed from the loudspeaker, to which Angel climbed off of Hugo and moved two seats to the right. They were quickly joined by the rest of the club who Scarlet ushered into the section to all sit together. She was rather proud of her new group of friends.

At first the game was fun, if a little strange. And then Rachel had died …

*

The police officers were greeted to Angel’s entire stony-faced family. Angel was wearing a silk pink crop top and looked extremely undisturbed. Marilyn noted that he was defiantly facing away from his father and grandmother.

‘So – this party. You were dancing on the table, yes?’

The entire family turned in indignation. James winced.

‘Angel?’ Samaira snapped.

Angel shifted slightly, but he still looked a lot less uncomfortable than his boyfriend had. ‘I was dancing for a bit.’ 

‘What sort of dancing?’ Samaira demanded. 

‘You know.' Angel shrugged. 'Just dancing.’ 

‘It was enough to make your boyfriend feel uncomfortable,' said Marilyn sharply. James frowned at her.

Grandmother cackled. ‘Oooh. Trouble in paradise, eh?’ 

Angel glared at her. ‘It wasn’t trouble. Hugo got upset, that’s all. I thought we made up.’ He stared at James. ‘Is he still upset?’ 

James was a trained police officer, but he felt slightly uncomfortable under this fifteen-year old’s hard hazel-golden gaze. 

‘Irrelevant,’ said Marilyn. ‘We would, however, like to talk about Hugo.’ 

Angel crossed his legs. His lips flattened into a pout. ‘Why?’ 

‘Did you see him conversing with Scarlet that night, Angel?’ asked Marilyn. James stared at her. She ignored him. 

‘No,’ Angel said. His arms folded slowly and deliberately over his chest. He was full on glaring at them now, his eyes furious.

Marilyn tilted her head. ‘Are you sure?’ 

‘ _Yes_ , I’m sure,’ said Angel. His voice was loud and defiantly belligerent. 

‘Alright,’ said Marilyn. ‘Let’s move away from that for a little. Did you see anything else strange?’

‘If this boy of yours is mixed up in any murder-‘ Vihaan began.

‘Hugo hasn’t murdered anybody!’ Angel’s tone was fiery. His golden eyes held no doubt, but there was plenty of fear in them.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Marilyn unsympathetically. ‘Did you notice anything strange about anybody else, Angel?’

Angel shuffled for a bit and then said, ‘Sophie. She looked terrified – and she was looking...’ 

‘Looking? Looking at what? Who?’

‘Rachel. She was looking at Rachel like ... looking at Rachel like she was terrified to be looking at her.’ 

There was a snort. ‘You’re talking nonsense, boy,’ said Grandmother. 

‘No, I don’t think he is,’ said James cautiously. ‘Angel, before your fashion show, Rachel appeared to be attempting to… woo Sophie.’ 

Angel’s sculpted eyebrows rose. ‘No way. Sophie and _Rachel_?’

‘Yes,’ said James. ‘So Sophie could have all well been terrified.' His eyes lit up with some new understanding. 'She was afraid of the possibility of a different sexuality to the one she considered ... perhaps even the possible termination of her current relationship with her boyfriend ...’ 

‘No,’ said Angel, with such certainty in his voice that James stopped. 

‘No?’ questioned Marilyn. 

‘I know what it’s like to be scared of people finding out about your sexuality,’ said Angel stubbornly. He was determinedly not looking at his father or Grandmother. ‘Sophie didn’t look paranoid. She looked _scared_. Like – like somebody had already found out. There’s terror that you might be found out – and there's terror in knowing that your terror has come true.’ 

James and Marilyn exchanged looks. 

‘Possible new motive there,’ murmured Marilyn, 'if we accept his analysis.' And then, louder, ‘when did you see it?’ 

‘While I was dancing. But she was with Cameron, Mali and another girl with blonde hair-‘

‘Andrea, probably,’ said James. Marilyn nodded in irritated agreement. 

‘And Hugo was upset, so I didn’t go over to her straight away. Then Wink Murder started.’ 

‘Of course,’ said Marilyn. ‘And the Wink Murder ... Hugo was next to you the whole time?’ 

_‘Yes!’_

‘What do you think Hugo’s _done_?’ Riya asked worriedly. 

Marilyn tilted her head, smile pasted on. ‘Nothing.’

‘He hasn’t done anything,’ said Angel furiously. Tears bit at his eyes. He wiped at them defiantly.

‘No, he probably hasn’t,’ said James determinedly. ‘Marilyn, what the hell?’ 

Marilyn’s smile did not waver. 

‘You can’t just mess with his emotions like that,’ said Riya indignantly. ‘He’s already unstable-‘

‘He’s _not_ unstable,’ said Samaira quickly. ‘He’s not unstable,’ she repeated to the police. 

‘Of course,’ said Marilyn, her tone daintily disbelieving. ‘We’re off to see some others. Thank you for your hospitality.’

*

The account Cameron had given hadn’t been much out of the ordinary. He had said that everyone had thought Rachel had just been murdered in the game. The knife was long and cruel and certainly a bit more realistic than the other special effects, but they had all been pretty gory anyway. 

He didn’t know what it was that had started the unrest. There was a tenseness in the room. Perhaps it was because Rachel hadn’t moved yet. Her eye lids had dropped, strips of bloodshot white visible beneath the lashes. 

He didn’t remember much except someone yanking the knife. The way Rachel’s body convulsed and jolted with it had convinced him. You couldn’t fake that. Then he just remembered that girl screaming, screaming, her hands slick with blood ...

‘Sounds like quite an ordeal, Cameron,’ said Marilyn. ‘But, of course, I daresay you were happy.’ 

Cameron frowned. There was a beat of tension. ‘Why would I be happy? Rachel died.’ 

‘You never got on brilliantly.’ 

He stared.

‘That doesn’t mean that I want her stabbed through the ribcage.' 

‘And of course, there was her and Sophie.’ 

‘Nothing happened between her and Sophie,’ said Cameron, his fists clenched. 

Marilyn tilted her head. ‘Are you sure?’

Cameron’s jaw was tense. ‘Yes, I’m fucking sure.’ 

Marilyn simply smiled.

Cameron stared at her, eye twitching. He was jerking one finger back and forward.

‘Shut up,’ he said roughly. 

‘Cameron, hey,’ said James, frowning. ‘Marilyn just wants to inquire as to whether Rachel and Sophie –‘ 

‘Nothing’s going on with Rachel and Sophie! Why does everyone keep bugging me about that?’

Cameron had stood up; but after a moment he breathed out and sat back down again. 

‘Just leave me alone. I don’t – I don’t understand why everyone - everyone keeps bugging me-‘

‘Because it’s a lovely motive, don't you think?' asked Marilyn silkily. 

Cameron looked up at her with wildly dark eyes. ‘You think,’ he said, and his voice was heavy with a poisonous fury, ‘that I murdered Rachel because she kissed Sophie at the fashion show?’ 

Marilyn’s eyes glinted as Cameron stood up. She did also, but she nowhere near matched his height.

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ 

And then he lost it.

*  
‘Your brother has quite the temper,’ Marilyn remarked. Mali’s eyes narrowed. 

‘What happened?’ 

‘He grew – angry during our questions,’ said James. 

Mali’s face paled. ‘Cameron has been – affected by our past. He gets angry. But he doesn’t – he isn’t – a murderer.’ 

‘Affected?’ Marilyn mused. 

‘He – my father – always had a nasty temper. He’d fly into rages. Cameron – Cameron learnt that from him.’ 

‘And you? Have you been affected?’ 

Mali shrugged. ‘People say I work too hard. My views on certain things are – old-fashioned. And my relationship with Cameron is often parental rather than sisterly. Nothing I'd classify as especially serious.’ 

‘Your relationship with Cameron?’ Marilyn questioned, in a voice that implied she did classify it as something serious.

‘He’s – he’s such a child sometimes ...' Mali breathed out. 'He can easily get himself into trouble. He’s – he’s immature, that’s all.' She rubbed her forehead. 'And his temper... well, you said you've seen it. You can imagine how a boy - a tall strong black boy who plays basketball - how he might be seen. I just - watch over him.'

‘Mali-‘ James began. She didn’t appear to have heard him.

‘Please – don’t try and convict him – he’s innocent. And I have to - I have to – I have to look after him!’ 

‘Okay, Mali,’ said James softly. ‘That’s fine.’

She reached for the drink James offered her with shaking hands.

After time to mull over her outburst, she looked rather shocked with herself. She sat trembling back down, her hand over her mouth. Marilyn exchanged a look with James, but neither of them betrayed to Mali what it meant.

‘Cameron grew upset due to discussion of his girlfriend Sophia,’ said James cautiously, unsure as to how she would react.

Mali made a noise. ‘It’s nothing. Just a fling with Rachel, a couple of meltdowns. He overreacts. Always.’

‘Of course,’ said James. ‘We’re going to bring you over to the police station now Mali, if you don't mind. Your Aunt Clare has work, she can't take you. There’s going to be a group interview after all the separate ones. We just have Sophie and Scarlet to go.'

Mali accepted readily and left with cheeks tinted at the thought of her outburst.

'I wonder,' said Marilyn, 'how much pressure is required before someone like Mali would snap.'

*

‘What do you think this group interview’s going to be like?’ asked Cameron. 

Angel shrugged. 

‘Where’s Sophie?’ asked Hugo. 

‘She hasn’t had her private one yet. They’re going to interview her then bring her over here. They’re doing Scarlet separately.’ 

Hugo nodded. 

‘How are you?’ Mali asked disinterestedly.

‘Good, I guess,' said Hugo, pulling at his sleeves. 'This whole investigation is super freaky though.’

Angel nodded. ‘My family are being ridiculous about it.'

‘How are your family?’

Angel pulled a face. ‘They’re taking their time deciding whether they think my sexuality makes me human or not.’ 

Mali shrugged. ‘They’re probably just not accepting of your choice. It’s their own belief.’ 

‘Choice?’ said Angel. His voice was innocent, but it carried danger in it. Hugo shuffled a little. An argument between Mali and Angel sounded like a clash of two souls that would break something.

Mali shrugged again. ‘Well, it is a choice, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a choice whether I act on it,’ said Angel, tone flat and unwavering. ‘But you can’t cut off your entire attraction to men. That’s not how it works.’

Mali’s forehead was pinched again as she thought it over. ‘Of – of course.’ 

‘Are you alright?’ Cameron asked. He was staring intensely at his sister.

‘It’s just – that thought had never occurred to me. That you will be inevitably attracted to either men or women or both.’ 

‘Well, now it has,’ said Angel, with a blinding smile and a deadly tone. 

‘Of course. I’m sorry to have – I’m sorry if I have offended.’ She sounded distracted. 'I'm just - preoccupied with these interviews.'

Cameron blinked. ‘Wow. You got through to Fortress Mali.’ 

Mali punched him in the arm.

‘I’m starving,’ Cameron groaned. ‘Can we go somewhere to eat? This station food is disgusting.’

‘You can still eat it,’ said Mali. 

‘No, I can’t!’ Cameron stuck out his legs and pouted like a child. Mali sighed and went to talk to Eleanor the receptionist, who reluctantly agreed to allow her across the road to a café. 

‘The food isn’t much better though,’ she said to Mali dispassionately. ‘And the queues are always long. Go quickly. I’m on my lunch break soon.’

Mali shrugged and walked off, leaving Cameron, Angel and Hugo waiting. 

*

James banged at the door again. ‘Isn’t she in?’

‘We told her we’d be here,’ said Marilyn grimly. 

‘Police, open up!’ James bellowed. 

There was no answer. 

‘Can I help you?’ 

The girl standing behind him had suspicious eyes and blonde hair twisted into ringlets. The skin around her left eye was a faded violet. 

‘We’re here to talk to a Ms Sophia-‘

‘Sophie’s in the flat. I think someone came knocking for her. They went into Sophie’s room,’ said Andrea. ‘Maybe she can’t hear you.’ She sounded doubtful. ‘She could have popped out for something.’ 

She produced a key. The door was opened.

‘Sophie? Sophie?’ 

‘Police! We’re here to talk to you.’ 

There was no answer. Andrea opened the door – and then screamed a ragged, shaky cry. James gasped. 

Marilyn’s eyes had been sadly expectant. 

Sophie had been hung, the rope knotted around her throat coarse and thick. Her eyes were not only half-closed like Rachel’s, but shut, the lashes casting shadows on sickly-coloured cheeks. Her head was lolled slightly, like a doll’s – but she was still letting out ragged, quick little breaths.

Mali was lying on the floor. It was an ungainly, awkward position. She was surrounded by blood.

James cut through the rope and pushed on Sophie’s chest. She awoke with a gasp, terrified and sobbing, but awake. 

‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘The rope was tight enough to look like she had been hung – but not tight enough to kill her. That's God's work.'

Andrea was crying, gasping, and James was pushing and Marilyn was watching, just watching, her mind working-

Sophie woke up with a gasp, her eyes wide, mouth open, and then she saw Mali’s body and tears began to roll.

Marilyn nodded in grim understanding and stormed out of the room. The screech of the tires did not tell where she was going. 

*

Marilyn went first to Velvet. Halfway through her story, Marilyn’s eyes turned bright; and then she left, her tires squealing once again. She arrived at the house of Anastazja Szczecin. 

Anastazja was a very pretty girl, Marilyn noted. Blonde hair, red lipstick. She did not seem to be daunted by Marilyn, even after she introduced herself as a detective in the Rachel Darnsby investigation. 

‘I need you to tell me,’ said Marilyn, ‘what you told Angel Acharya two months ago.’


	15. The Gun Will Shout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marilyn has her hunch proven by Anastazja, only to find that a shocking action of Scarlet's has already provided Percival with ample understanding, but Boardman and James remain in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up! I'm aware that this chapter is abominably short but I think that it's far more impactful this way.

**The Briefing Room, 10:11 am**

James looked aghast. Percival's face was red and tense. Boardman looked stony.

Marilyn burst into the room breathless, her eyes glittering with an anonymous fury. Her hair was messy. 

'You're late,' said Boardman.

‘I know,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I know who did it – I know who helped her.’ 

Boardman stood. ‘Marilyn – unless you’ve got evidence this isn’t-‘

‘No,’ said Marilyn. ‘Evidence comes later ...’ 

Percival's face closed in on itself. 'I've already secured the evidence.'

He handed her a single sheet of paper.

*

 _I am sad to have had to commit, but then, I am a coward. I am scared and worried and angry but have, at least, done what I have always wanted to do._ _I have committed murder._

_Rachel was my victim before I even knew her. Someone with such an ability to irritate goes through life with a target painted on her forehead. The fact that she so blindly stumbled into my path is one for which I cannot be held responsible. She ruined it all. And then – such a beauteous, obvious motive presented to Mali; it was inescapable. Inevitable. If I die I will die knowing that I have done the world a great service in the murder of Rachel Darnsby._

_I donot like to admit I was beaten, but beaten I was. Unfortunately, her motive was emotional, and with enlightenment came understanding that the elimination of Rachel would not do much service in sheltering him. Indeed, her next actions will do nothing in terms of that end either. He will be exposed to life as everyone is. That must be the most disheartening thing for her to discover: that after everything, it was fruitless. At least I received the enjoyment I thought I would before my death._

_My death, it rankles. Not even a worthy foe put an end to me. Percival outsmarted me – Percival! That fat fool. I should rather Mali beat me than Percival, but then again Mali is in fact stupider than him. It is just how Percival appears._

_But now I have no options than to admit defeat or die and I should hate to admit defeat. So I shall die._

_I believe that in a suicide note one is meant to address those they feel personal attachment for. I like Sophie and I will miss her._

_I did like Mali. I fear that Cameron, a male of colour with anger issues and an abusive past, may be blamed despite his lack of involvement. I remind the police now that he had no part in it._

_He is kind and makes me laugh. I am sorry for him._

_I see that I could be blamed for some of his troubles. If you do find me guilty in your own court of justice, Cameron, I am sorry._

_Angel, as always I admire your passion. I also admire your moral integrity. You showed me that morals can be out of bravery as well as cowardice. I enjoyed that lesson. I think you will do well if this note does not ruin you._

_Velvet, I am unsure as to where you will go. Perhaps some years from now you will sit at a desk with a pen and paper in one hand and a gun in the other like me. But perhaps you will flourish in a new career and relationship and restart your family life and do fantastically. I enjoy your company. I here express my sincerest apologies to you so that if you, like Cameron, declare that you would have rathered to not be rendered a pawn, my apology remains._

_Hugo, you are as always good. I do not understand that goodness enough to comment on it, but it warms me. I wish you well but I must scorn the love of friends you so inspire that at once made and undid my plot._

_Mother. I owe you no thanks as you have done as the law requires you and not much more. I am not sure if I love you very much but in case I do, have named you here. I do not have time to contemplate it any further than that._

_The clock ticks. The gun will shout. I assume you will be the one to find me. Goodbye._

_Yours sincerely,_  
_Scarlet Turner_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scarlet offered a few hints - any theories?


	16. Ice, Blood and Cowardice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marilyn explains her theory, but Boardman is unconvinced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicide

Marilyn finished reading and then put down the note.

'I understand,' she said flatly. 'Shall I explain? Or shall you, Percival?'

He did not respond, but his face turned hard.

Boardman looked even more incredulous. ‘Percival? What on earth –‘

‘Odd things,’ said Marilyn. ‘Odd things – that’s what a case is. Percival – Percival and Eleanor. The affair.’

‘Marilyn – start from the beginning.’ 

‘That’s all I thought it was – an affair. I didn’t think it was my place to interfere.’ 

‘An affair? Between Percival and Eleanor? What on earth-‘

‘His drink,’ said Marilyn. 

‘His –‘ 

Boardman stopped. 

‘His drink – well, yes-‘

_Boardman spat out his drink. ‘Ugh, this is disgusting. That bloody secretary – Eleanor or whatever her name is – can’t make tea.’_  
_James regarded his cup with a dissatisfied expression. ‘My drink’s wrong too.’_  
_Marilyn nodded. ‘As is mine.’_  
_Percival sipped his correct drink smugly._

‘When you mentioned firing Eleanor, two things struck me as wrong. Percival grew immediately upset, and he referred to her as Ellie – a nickname nobody else in the office uses.’ 

_‘Firing Ellie isn’t the important thing right now,’ said Percival, sounding rather indignant about Boardman’s lack of focus on the case._  
_James laughed and clapped him on the back. ‘Not like you to be so invested in your work. Do you want something at the shop?’_

‘Alright, so maybe something’s going on between Percival and Ellie,' said Boardman tightly. He did not look at any of his subordinates, instead staring straight ahead. 'None of that's concrete proof. But anyway, not a problem. In regards, to the case, anyway.'

‘No,’ said Marilyn. ‘But Scarlet Turner makes notes on _everything_ , remember? She studies human interactions. And Percival, as James recently drew my attention to, lives in her area.'

_‘Percival lives right in the area,’ James pleaded. ‘In the Grove.’_

_‘Scarlet’s house is 43, Elmwood Grove,’ James checked._

‘I checked just how close. His house is directly opposite Scarlet’s – a fact, I’m sure, that he unintentionally left concealed.’ Her tone was dry. 'I'm not sure if you've read any of Scarlet Turner's notes. If she ever went off murder, blackmail would have been an excellent path for her. Lovely piece of information to hold over someone, that ... a marriage gone. That huge house – that I doubt his police salary does much to pay for – gone. All in the hands of one fifteen year old girl who knows too much ... who can make you do anything.’

Boardman was pale. ‘Well – it sounds like a good story, Marilyn, but there’s no evidence. Percival wasn’t there on the night.’ 

‘Well,’ said Marilyn. ‘I raise the question - a fake policeman – or a real one?’ 

Boardman’s head jerked. ‘Don’t be –‘

‘Percival made sure he was the one tracking this fake policeman,’ said Marilyn. ‘He deliberately made offensive comments when discussing the suspects –‘

_‘You’ve got to admit, that – person’s - not right in the head. And she’s cut herself, all down the arms – maybe he’s got a thing about violence-‘_

_‘He looks the type, doesn’t he?’_

‘-which was odd. Even James mentioned that it wasn’t like Percival to say such things.’

_‘It’s not like Percival, to make remarks like that,’ said James._

‘It ended on my refusing to have Percival with me, which was just what he wanted. He’s worked with me a long time. He knows my stance on prejudice in the police force.’

‘That’s ridiculous, Marilyn. What would he gain?’

‘What would he gain?' Marilyn laughed humourlessly. 'Rather – what would he lose? What if one of the children at the party recognized him? Don’t you remember the description he gave us, Inspector Boardman?’ 

_‘They’ve got one description – fat, red face, balding, dressed in a police uniform.’_

‘That could apply to lots of people, Marilyn,’ said Boardman. His face was getting ashier by the second. 

‘Yes,’ said Marilyn. ‘Awfully convenient for Percival, don’t you think? If we brought the suspects in to look at him, do you think he’d be recognized? Scared, Percival placed himself at the mantle of the “Daniel Green” investigation.’ 

_‘I’ll do some research on Daniel Green, perhaps,’ Percival suggested._

‘But – but the murder. This has nothing to do with anything so far-'

‘Scarlet’s a conductor. A far better one that we could even imagine … far more dangerous than we thought. It all started when Rachel tried to best her …’

_‘And just yesterday! That blonde girl came over. And there’s a space on your shelf – have you thrown one out?’_

‘Rachel went to Scarlet’s house,’ said Marilyn softly. ‘And my guess is – she took one of Scarlet’s notebooks. I’ve looked through Scarlet’s methods of organization – her sorting system, for the books – and the book she’s missing is a book dedicated to notes on people around her. I think Rachel Darnsby took the notebook with the information about Percival’s affair.’

Boardman stared. ‘And what?’

‘Rachel was a sanctimonious girl,’ said Marilyn. ‘Known for reporting her fellow pupils for the slightest misdemeanours. What would she do if she read something this big? That Scarlet was making notations on a police officer, a beacon of the community? I daresay Scarlet had plans to use Percival before anything was concrete or in place. And if that was suggested to Rachel, she’d want to report, oh yes. You see? All this time, we were underestimating Scarlet Turner. This was no silly schoolgirl squabble with a murderess on one side. It wasn’t just that Scarlet disliked her. She _had_ to kill her.’

‘But Scarlet wouldn’t know that Rachel was reporting-‘

‘An educated guess,’ said Marilyn silkily. ‘Scarlet would be more than willing to murder a girl on a suspicion. But I think it was more. Rachel took advice from a fellow prefect – an Anastazja Szczecin. Perhaps she wanted to show off how knowledgeable and integral she was. Perhaps she was genuinely worried. But she consulted a girl she knew as responsible regardless. And then - Anastazja told Angel.’

‘ _Angel_?’ Boardman repeated. 

_‘Yes, she [Anastazja] just asked how Angel was – asked how everyone was – and then told us quite plainly._

_There were girls and there were boys – none of you would know any of them, except maybe Tanseem-‘_  
_‘I don’t want to know,’ she said pointedly, tossing her hair._  
_‘Good, I wasn’t going to tell you, and you’d have to kick some people out of your little girl’s group, wouldn’t you?’_

‘Why would Anastazja ask about Angel specifically? Odd, no? I checked who was in Tanseem’s club. As a prefect, Anastazja is a member. It was she that Angel was referring to as one of his past flames. And – judging by her reaction to him being arrested – there are still feelings there.’ 

‘I don’t see any relevance,’ said Boardman. His tone was clipped. ‘Or anything that isn’t guesswork.’

_‘I don’t want Velvet. I don’t want Scotty Parker. I don’t want pretty blonde prefects in red lipstick.’_

‘Inspector, please. That wasn’t a throwaway comment,’ said Marilyn earnestly. ‘Perhaps Anastazja had been talking to Angel, a lot, recently – enough to make Hugo feel uncomfortable. Perhaps she mentioned Rachel’s conversation with her. And after Angel knew, it wouldn’t take much for him to tell Hugo, or Velvet – and then for it to get around to Sophie, or to Cameron … and eventually to Scarlet … so Scarlet had to cover her back. She was talking to Velvet at the party, no?’

_She leaned closer to Velvet and began speaking, but what she was saying was hidden from even those closest to them, snatched away by the reverberating beat of the music. Velvet stared at her, aghast but intrigued._

‘After much probing, Velvet confessed that, at the party, Scarlet told her that Hugo had attempted to cheat on Angel with Cameron. It explains some of her early animosity to the relationship … and her fascination with what that Scarlet. This would of course lead to an opening for Angel, with a significant other. Of course, it is a lie – but when talking to Velvet, Scarlet suggested that Hugo was so daring because Sophie was a lesbian, or at least attracted to women … that she could never be happy with Cameron. Rather bigoted. I doubt Velvet thought much of it, but, after all, Velvet wasn’t the one Scarlet was creating a motive for … she just had to mention the tasty tidbit that was Rachel Darnsby's growing attraction to Sophie.

‘Velvet had gone to Cameron and asked him. He was wound up on the topic of Sophie and Rachel long before Mali asked him about it – because Velvet had already asked. But Mali is not one to drop things, is she? She probed, and she pushed for Velvet to tell her – as Scarlet was expecting. And when she found out about the apparent turbulence of their relationship thanks to Rachel ... well. You can imagine that "traditional" Mali would swallow down Scarlet's explanation with glee … and her protective side would come to the fore. Scarlet had it all set up. Percival stabbed Rachel Darnsby in the dark. And then – here’s the genius part of it – Scarlet has told Mali that Cameron had done it. And so Mali did all the donkey work of keeping Velvet silent on what Scarlet had told her, quelling any gossip on Sophie’s sexuality, as to not incriminate Cameron – and therefore, as Scarlet wanted, made it impossible to trace where Velvet had heard it from; almost impossible to trace it back to Scarlet. Velvet was a good choice; not only as a gossip, but as someone who would not out anybody. She is a truly kind and integral girl. Not even Angel, the person I think she values the most, knew.’

_Angel’s sculpted eyebrows rose. ‘No way. Sophie and Rachel?’_

‘But unfortunately, Mali’s madness went further. Thanks to Scarlet’s poison, she believed Sophie was doomed to hurt her brother. And-‘

_‘No! I have to look after him!’ Her face was pale, eyes desperate._

Boardman was silent.

‘She went to visit Sophie. And then she killed her. And then she called Scarlet – Scarlet, who she believed to be an ally! But Scarlet was not. Scarlet had some attachment to Sophie.’

_Sophie is a good person, like Hugo._

‘But, more importantly, she is not one for unbridled madness. She is a calculated murderer, not one passionately longing for blood. She loves playing the game as much as she does moving the pieces, and did not want to be revealed because of Mali’s lack of restraint. In calling Scarlet, Mali signed her death warrant. Scarlet was the one who killed Mali – and she was the one who loosened the rope around Sophie’s neck.’

_‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘The rope was tight enough to look like she had been hung – but not tight enough to kill her. That’s God’s work – God’s.’_

‘Not God’s work, but Scarlet’s. With her knowledge of murder and the power of gossip, Scarlet orchestrated Rachel Darnsby’s murder with Percival as her pawn, and then killed her accomplice to cover it up,’ said Marilyn. Her eyes were hard and sad at the same time. ‘That girl is made of ice and blood.’

‘I think you might be right,’ said Boardman. ‘I think – I think you might be right – but Sophie couldn’t testify against Scarlet. She wouldn’t be conscious. Velvet’s testimony would only prove Scarlet to be a gossip. I don’t think – I don’t think we could win this court case, Marilyn. Which is, of course, how Miss Turner planned it.’

Marilyn smiled a wry, dark smile, and then slid a tape across the desk.

‘Percival’s confession,’ she said softly. ‘He left it to the police department in his will – as a form of protection. Scarlet would do best to murder him too, truly clean up any evidence of what she has done. But this way, she had no way out. With Percival’s death would come inevitable discovery.’

Boardman stared aghast. ‘How – how did you-‘

‘A police badge can help you find out a lot of things,’ said Marilyn simply. She slid a tape across the desk. ‘Left to you. Labelled “Confession”. Percival told Scarlet Turner that with his death would come her discovery. She, therefore, could not kill him ... unless she could find a way to remove the tape. But how could she? Scarlet Turner would have been scared – very, very scared ... because she liked to be certain. But now she knew that she was reliant on Percival – and, after all, his death day would most likely be the day of her imprisonment.'

'So what?' said Boardman sharply. 'She - the girl you think orchestrated this - just _killed_ herself?'

Marilyn's face was blank. 'It seems that our murderer was a coward.'

'Percival?' asked James softly. Shock had cut lines into his youth. He stared at his co-worker with new eyes.

Percival said nothing.

 

*  
**The Night Before**

Scarlet Turner was staring at a black and white wall with a gun in one hand and a note in the other. 

There was no emotion in her face as she opened her mouth and placed the gun to the roof. After the gunshot, there was merely silence. An anticlimactic ending to a life spent plotting a murder that went wrong; and now bloodied remains and mountains of notebooks were all that were left. 

‘Scarlet. I’ve brought dinner. Toast and eggs.’ 

Scarlet said nothing. Ms Turner, used to this reaction, pushed open the door and then dropped the plate. 

There was no mistaking the wound for anything other than fatal. Scarlet, after all, knew what she was talking about. Ms Turner simply screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys think Marilyn is right?


	17. The Tape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percival's tape testifies against Scarlet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, super short, but like Scarlet's note I feel that it's more impactful on its own!

_Inspector. This is Percival. This, I suppose, is a confession. I never thought when I got into the police force that I’d ever be on the other end of this. I'm sorry if you thought it might be something else, a goodbye or who knows what. I've never been the sort of man for that._

_Marian, I mean, we hadn’t been right for years, but she’s not the sort to give up on something till it’s sunk to the point of no return. Me – I see things happening. If we’re still together by the time you hear this, I daresay this will do it, even in her strange little mind._

_Ellie made me laugh. She reminded me that perhaps I was a bit younger than I’d been acting, recently. And men her age weren't mature enough for her, or so she always said. I thought it was more about money than maturity - Heaven knows that it was more Marian's than mine, but neither of the women had strength enough to mind. It was fun, don't get me wrong. I do love Ellie, and she was loyal to the end. Until Scarlet found out._

_Creepy girl. But ever since she was a kid she’d stared out that window at me, writing away in her notebooks. I didn’t even realize she was writing about me and Ellie. Not until she told me – told me straight, too. If I wanted my marriage, I wanted Scarlet to get what she wanted. And all that that crazy girl ever wanted was to put those notebooks and experiments and folders to use._

_The other girl was deranged too, in her own way. Wanted to keep her brother “safe.” If I was her brother then the first thing I’d be keeping myself safe from was her._

_Anyway, I’d worked enough murder cases to want to keep as far away from the weapon as possible. Didn’t like it much, neither – the thought of sinking that blooming knife into that poor girl’s back. Scarlet was far too cautious to do it herself, so I ended up doing it anyway. I guess that sums up our relationship pretty well._

_If you haven’t figured it out, it was me. The “fake” policeman. Only I was real, obviously. I’m sorry. Honest. I don’t know the girl I killed, but I bet she didn’t enjoy it and her family neither. If there’s anyone alive that cares, I want you to do that, Boardman. Tell them that I did regret it. I’m not masquerading as a saint. I didn’t regret it so much that I came clean, didn’t regret it so much that I’d rather risk me and Marian, but I regretted it. I’m not sure if they’ll like that or not. I’d like them to know anyway._

_It was simple for such a complicated plan. We let a couple of them “die” – in the game, like. Then on that one, in the dark I took the knife out of my makeup bag. Wasn't in any of the sections so there was no beep. Found the blonde ponytail and then – bam! Scarlet didn’t think she’d scream all that much. She kind of cried out a bit. Even if, lots of them had been fake screaming. No-one would think much of it at the time._

_My next part in it was wiping the blade clean after I took it as evidence. Confused Marilyn, that did._

_I’m not sure if this will be a shock. Maybe you were suspicious. I did good things, too, though. I worked cases. But there was no love in it. Me and Marian were a bit like me and the police force. Lots of glamour, lots of enticement - so my young self went in head-first – and then I got stuck before I had time to realize that all of that glamour would fade away, eventually. If our mortgage wasn’t fading away with it – well. I know it’s sad, to stay with her for the money, but what does a man do? Romance isn’t like the fairy books she planned to read to the kids she wanted._

_Look at me, waxing poetic. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the lies, Boardman, and I know my “sorry’s” don’t mean much because guilt’s never much of a motivator for me, but I am.  
I hope this tape lets you convict her. I know that one day she’ll join me in Hell. I’m not the sort of man who’s looking for penance, but God, if there’d be a fitting punishment for me, it would be that she’s next to me in the flames._

*  
 **The Briefing Room**

"I think that's quite enough evidence to put Percival away," said Marilyn.

Boardman looked as if he had been struck. James had still not spoken.

"Tomorrow, we can go and clear things up," said Marilyn briskly. 

The door swung behind her. Neither of the others got up.


	18. The Regeneration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late, I've been on holiday in Rome in a hotel with _very_ sketchy Wi Fi.

Life can be eaten by fire to shreds of what it was, and still regenerate.

Angel and Tanseem patched things over with an awkwardness that was not as elegant as either would have liked, but had some genuine feelings to it, which was really what mattered. They skirted around one another until seven months later, in which Tanseem pierced her lip. Angel had stared at her in gleeful incredulity, and then flung his arms around her; the her that was beginning to show underneath regardless of what others might think.

Seven months later, she decided that it was not a good look on her, and took it out, but the new friendship remained. It had been the daring, not the accessory, that was key, after all.

Aunt Prisha, somewhat surprisingly, had nothing to say about the piercing, and instead commented that her daughter’s eyes looked brighter. Her husband noted a steeliness behind the remark that suggested that were he to complain, he would not have his wife’s backing, and somehow the thought persuaded him to stay silent.

Jayesh and Angel grew closer every day, and with it Jayesh grew bolder. At the age of eighteen, he returned home in triumph to a string of A*’s in his A-Levels, and followed it up with a declaration that he was not going to university, but into activism. Angel’s father hated the idea. Angel loved it.

Regardless of others’ opinions, Jayesh made an excellent activist, and eventually his company paired up with his brother’s business. Angel’s talent had swelled into a giant of a corporation, and he loved it like you should a child; a little for the money, because he always did have expensive tastes, but mainly because it was a manifestation of all he could achieve and everything he fought through.

Riya was proud, as she had always been, and by the time Angel was twenty their relationship was stronger than ever. It took her time to take down the prejudices she had built and rebuild something new, but eventually she got to the place that she should go. Angel did not miss the Straight Ally and Bisexual Pride flags sitting at her desk, or the multitude of books she borrowed from the library about Queer History – because Riya did love him, and she was trying – but what really repaired their relationship in the end was a long-awaited tearful apology for outing Angel all that time ago. It took too long, perhaps, for Riya to realize the impact she had had, but Angel had nothing left to begrudge. 

Aarav and Hiran never tried to learn, not really, and never did. It hurt Angel less and less as the years went on, but a small bruise still aches.

Angel’s relationship with the adults of his family remained tense. Things between him and his parents was, for the most part, stable, but he could not shake the internal instability that came from being asked to leave what he knew as his home. His mother tended to burst into tears at the topic and his father always shouted if it was pushed, and as such, no resolution was found and his wounds never healed. Angel carried the burden of what they had done until they died, and though it didn’t cancel out his love for them, it did damper it.

Whether or not his mother and father carried their sorrow for as long as their impact lasted, he never knew.

Velvet’s mother left her husband five years after the investigation. It had been something of a bombshell with rather pleasant aftershocks. Velvet’s father suddenly found things in himself he had not noticed were gone, and with them he found his daughter. Despite their rocky start in the beginning years, he was there for her throughout the rest of it, and in Velvet’s eyes, that was what mattered. He was a hug before a long day, and a shoulder to cry on after each breakup, and for her there were many, because she always did go in too hard and too fast.

Her eventual partner was thoughtful and cautious, a balance for her scales, and he adored her recklessness as much as she desired the stability he brought her. Velvet’s mother did attend her wedding, though she glared throughout the ceremony and complained that Velvet’s dress exposed too much shoulder and that the cake was dry.

After a second glass of wine at which more incriminating opinions came forth, Velvet’s new husband politely asked the uninvited woman to leave.

Hugo’s childhood eyes had seen something new after the investigation, and they found it difficult to process. But there were always things to fall back on, the two most constant being Angel and his mother, and he pushed through. He considered many different careers, none of which he much liked, before he decided that perhaps his calling was nothing in terms of financial gain and everything in being around those he loved. Hugo became a house husband, and he enjoyed it. The amount of devotion he was able to put in to those he cared for was finally somewhat possible by the time in his day, and those around him were glad for it.

Of course, he never gave up petitioning, and eventually he set up his own charity.

Arianne’s paintings were famous until she died – with a heart at peace, for her father finally gave her the call. He had hated that number, in Arianne’s pretty pink pen, stuck on his fridge. He had torn it, stamped on it, and threw it away, more times than he could count, maintaining that he had no attention of calling the number, and perhaps he didn’t. But he could never really remove the last remaining link with Arianne; he always taped it back together, picked it up off the floor, and stuck it back in its place. At the age of eighty-seven, it had hit him that he was an old, old man, and likely to go, and he had the sudden realization that he did not want to die without meeting his grandson, and he had called her. A week later he had sat round a café table with his daughter, Angel and Hugo; and though he had been sure he would dislike Angel, he approved of courage, and he did not doubt that Angel had that.

‘Take care of my boy,’ he had said gruffly, and Angel understood the acceptance behind it. Hugo had flushed a delighted pink at being referred to as his grandfather’s “boy”, and Arianne had stared at her father with the adoring blue eyes she had when she was a little girl.

The bruises had seemed stamped around Sophie’s neck, a permanent, constant reminder that her boyfriend’s sister had tried to kill her, and she had hated it. But bruises fade, and then they disappear, leaving skin looking unmarked and fresh, innocent as the soul can never be. Sophie’s emotional wounds took a long time to heal, but they did. Her soul remained scarred, but it was free. She never neared Mali’s grave, and nobody blamed her.

Cameron did. He had kicked the tombstone, wishing it would crumble, again and again and again, but as she had always been, it was impenetrable. The smooth marble remained intact, and his toes were crunched and bloody by the end of it. 

He decided to sign up for Anger Management. He was full of a determination to be apart from his father and sister, to be able to cope in a way that did not hurt those around him, and he fulfilled his goal. Tension eased, he lived, he breathed. At the end of the program he left a single rose at the stone, not for what she did or who she was, but who she might have been. 

Jerome went to jail. He attempted to contact both Sophie and Andrea, and their answers were in the form of restraining orders. He did not break the terms. Neither knew what became of him.

Andrea’s skirts remained short and tops remained tight until she was old. She wore them like a badge of honour, and unlike Sophie wished she had kept her bruise. In those weeks it had been there, it was a remainder to her of her strength, as was the clothing that made so much socially acceptable that was ethically repugnant. She lived a life of vibrancy and freedom.

Scarlet’s mother did as she had always done, after the initial shock: smiled pleasingly, and brushed it over. It hurt, her guilt, but she was not the kind of woman with enough strength to let her thoughts run free. She told herself that she had no part in it, she could not be faulted, and whether she was right or not is up to you, because she never considered otherwise.

Aunt Clare’s thoughts tortured her. Eventually she went to therapy, and it helped. The woman was wary of children, understanding how easily a parental figure can shape a young mind, even through negligence. When she held her first grandchild it was with shaking hands, but a happy smile.

Boardman got the credit for the case. Marilyn was disappointed but expectant. She moved on to many others and was eventually promoted to a position reflecting her intellectual gifts. Though she solved many a case, she never forgot that of Scarlet Turner.

Scarlet lay in a grave, body broken. In the same graveyard lay the corpse of Rachel Darnsby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters are going to need a lot of editing and I'm super busy with exams and whatnot, so they might not come especially soon.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me @meganspoetry on Tumblr for my poems! Thank you so much for reading, I'd love some comments! My writing is very much a work in progress so constructive criticism would be great. This first chapter especially is a bit off so thank you very much for giving this work a chance.


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